Beauty and the Beast
by true-elven
Summary: Hermione has to choose between Draco and Harry when Draco is bitten by a werewolf. 6th year; DH, HH, HG.
1. Definitions

**Chapter One**

Draco Malfoy had a tradition: Every year on the drive to King's Cross, he made a plan for the year ahead – where he wanted to be in his life by June, and what he needed to do to get there.

Part of that forward-looking introspection included getting back in touch with his real self.

No one really knew Draco Malfoy. Not that it bothered him. On the contrary, he had worked very hard to cultivate the image everyone – particularly everyone at Hogwarts – so willingly bought: the cold, dastardly, bigoted heir of a cold, dastardly, bigoted house.

But a good many things about the "real" Draco, as he liked to think of himself, would have shocked the stuffing out of his classmates and teachers. For starters, Draco didn't dislike Harry Potter. Oh, he didn't like him, either; in point of fact, Draco was quite ambivalent toward Potter and didn't waste energy on admiring or loathing him. Being Potter's nemesis was part of a role, a role Draco's father Lucius certainly expected him to play, and a role Draco admittedly took some pleasure from. At least do-gooder Potter always made an easy target.

Topping Draco's list of most-hated things were self-styled heroes like Potter. It wasn't a personal dislike for The Boy Who Lived, and it certainly had nothing to do with loyalty to the Dark Lord. That was another revelation for Draco's schoolmates: His interest in You-Know-Who's doings extended only so far as they affected Draco's own life.

This summer, he had to admit, that affect had been greater than usual. Ever since Lucius Malfoy had landed himself in Azkaban with a dozen or so other Death Eaters, a huge spotlight had been shown on the Malfoy family. Draco's mother, Narcissa, had retreated into the Malfoy mansion in June and wasn't likely to emerge from her self-imposed hermitage until the glare of public scrutiny had significantly dimmed; she prowled about in black robes and sobbed continually into lily-white handkerchiefs, behaving quite like the widow Draco suspected she would have preferred being. At least widows, unlike the wives of convicts, were afforded some respect.

Draco didn't have the luxury of remaining hidden, at least not if he wanted to finish his education. Narcissa had mentioned once, rather tentatively, enrolling him in Durmstrang – this had been in mid-July, when the editorials in the Daily Prophet had become particularly vicious in their calls for punishing Death Eaters – but Draco had immediately refused. He had a plan for his life that only the respectability of a degree from Hogwarts would make possible, a plan that again didn't fit with the persona he'd created for himself: Draco Malfoy wanted to be a healer.

It didn't carry the noble weight he supposed his teachers would give it. Draco wasn't altruistic; unlike those would-be heroes whom he despised, he didn't imagine a golden soul caged in his chest or a path to glory lain before his feet. He was fascinated by the healing arts, plain and simple. From childhood he'd enjoyed the intellectual task of diagnosing magical maladies and determining just what potion, counter-jinx or tincture would correct it. His mother's uncle, Lynus Black, Draco's great-uncle, had been a renowned healer before his death, and Draco had spent many afternoons trailing behind Uncle Lynus at St. Mungo's. The fact that Draco had shown a natural aptitude for potions and charms commonly used by healers had mostly escaped notice by his professors, except for Snape, of course, who had been surprisingly supportive of Draco's career choice in their advisement session before the O.W.L.s.

So Durmstrang, where he would have been championed as a hero, was out, and a brutal sixth year of gearing up for the N.E.W.T.s at Hogwarts was in. Whatever spotlight Draco had sweated in over the summer would, he knew, only intensify the moment he stepped onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

His reception at Hogwarts would be mixed. Some, like that sniveling groupie Pansy Parkinson and his faithful cronies Crabbe and Goyle, would see Lucius's incarceration as further reason to worship Draco; others, particularly his Slytherin housemates, would pointedly distance themselves from him to decrease suspicion on their already-suspected families; the rest, like Potter and Granger and Weasley, would use the sins of the father as further excuse to despise the son.

All of that meant this would undoubtedly be Draco's most complicated year at school yet. On the one hand, he'd have to dodge the watchful eyes of professors like McGonagall who would be looking for any reason to expel the children of Death Eaters. On the other, if he wanted to retain any semblance of dignity, he wouldn't be able to hide in a hole, like he was either ashamed of his father's crimes (which he wasn't, though he wasn't especially proud of them) or afraid of Potter and his ilk.

What Draco needed was one good public stunt, one heart-stopping showdown with Potter that the entire school would know about yet the teachers would be unable to prove occurred, to firmly establish himself back on top of the Hogwarts heap this year. Quidditch was too visible; besides, much as he hated to admit it, Potter could fly circles around him – Lucius's money could buy his son a spot on the team but not the necessary talent to excel there, Draco had long since accepted. And even Snape's classroom wouldn't be particularly safe for spats this year, since everybody already assumed Snape worked for You-Know-Who and would be quick to haul him off to Azkaban if he allowed harm to come to the precious Harry Potter.

The car suddenly slowed, interrupting Draco's thoughts. The driver – who was normally a stable-hand for the Malfoys' many horses but also drove their black luxury sedan for forays into the Muggle world – turned and declared, "We're here, sir."

Draco waited on the curb while his trunk was unloaded. He caught a few stares from passerby; he looked thoroughly Muggle in loose-fitting, faded jeans, battered trainers and a plain black tee-shirt, but his pale skin, ice-blue eyes and white-blond hair always attracted lingering looks, especially from girls. Draco ignored them all. He couldn't imagine the scene his parents would make if he ever brought home a Muggle girl.

He left the driver outside the station, loaded his trunk onto a trolley, and walked briskly through the busy station. Rarely if ever did his parents see him off at the school train; most of Draco's life had been supervised by maids and butlers of some type, a fact for which he was actually thankful given his mother's dramatics and his father's temper.

He was just another teenage boy hurrying along to make a train, likely meeting up with his parents at the track, until he crossed through the barrier onto Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters.

Then, he was infamous.

No one, adult or teenager, had the courage to say anything to him, though Draco couldn't help but notice the eyes following him warily as he moved quickly through the throng. These stares were decidedly different from those on the Muggle side of the barrier: wary, disdainful, frightened, even reproving. Anyone who remotely approved of the Malfoys' connection to the Dark Lord was careful to avoid looking at him entirely.

It was disconcerting to be the object of so much disdain, to say the least. Draco was nothing if not proud, however, so he held his head high and marched purposefully onward. In fact, he was so determined to ignore everyone around him that he quite forgot to pay attention to where he was going and barreled shoulder-first into a girl who had stopped abruptly with her back to him.

"Sorry," he said automatically, reaching out to steady his trunk before it toppled off the trolley and attracted even more unwanted attention.

"No probl-" The voice stopped in mid-sentence, bringing Draco's eyes up from his trunk.

His heart did a funny leap. Was that…_Hermione Granger?_

She was tanned a deep brown, likely from another summer on the French coast, and slightly taller than he recalled, or maybe that was only because he was half-crouching beside the trolley. The butter-yellow sundress she wore suggested a few new curves as well. And her hair was certainly different: a layered, shoulder-length bob had managed to tame the once-bushy curls, and months of sun had brought out definite blond streaks in her normally nut-brown hair.

She looked, in a word, amazing.

With a rather embarrassing effort – _this was Hermione Granger, the disgusting little know-it-all _– Draco pulled his eyes away from her and glanced around for Potter and Weasley, who never seemed to be far behind her. Sure enough, they were only a little ways ahead, saying goodbye to the horridly frumpy Mrs. Weasley and her equally dowdy husband.

"Watch where you're going," Hermione snapped, amending her earlier warmth to a decidedly haughty annoyance.

A witty comeback simply didn't present itself. Only a supreme force of will kept Draco from blushing; he might have thrown himself in front of the Hogwarts Express if that had happened.

"Sorry," he managed again, much more coolly this time. "Don't know how I missed you in that dress."

He'd meant it as a slight about the color, yet it came off sounding far too suggestive. Hermione flushed (rather attractively) to the roots of her hair, and Draco fought down the urge to abandon his trolley and bolt back through the barrier. Was it too late to enroll in Durmstrang?

Luckily – and he didn't miss the irony in the situation – Potter and Weasley rescued him from the impossibly awkward moment. They stalked over, Weasley in the lead and looking anxious for a brawl; he had certainly gotten taller over the summer, and broader through the shoulders, Draco noted with some trepidation.

"Back off, Malfoy," Weasley snarled, positioning himself firmly between Hermione and Draco. Potter, Draco noticed, hung back slightly, watching.

Fame apparently didn't sit well with Potter. He looked thinner, paler, more somber even than at the end of the previous term. For the first time, it occurred to Draco that losing Sirius Black had probably carried all the punch of losing his parents all over again for Potter. He felt a twang of sympathy and promptly quashed it – heroes were known for getting themselves killed, usually with all the glorious stupidity Sirius Black had displayed.

"Relax, Weasley," Draco rejoined smoothly. "I'm not interested in your girlfriend."

Weasley's face turned such a bright red it appeared nearly purple. Hermione, glaring daggers at Draco, placed a restraining hand on Weasley's arm and muttered something about finding a seat before the train filled up entirely.

But Weasley, typically, couldn't walk away without the last word. "I'd be more careful if I were you," he warned Draco. "Seems like you don't have quite so many friends around to watch your back this year."

The obvious lack of reception from his fellow Slytherins – especially Crabbe and Goyle, who were usually waiting like well-trained dogs at the barrier to the platform but this year were nowhere to be seen – was already smarting for Draco. He seriously considered pulling his wand from his pocket and hexing Weasley right there, but getting expelled before he even got onboard the train struck him as a ridiculous thing to do.

"What's the matter, haven't you heard?" Weasley pressed, disregarding Hermione's insistent tugging on his sleeve. "Your cronies Crabbe and Goyle ran off to Durmstrang. Guess they didn't bother to send you an owl to say good-bye, huh?"

Draco was careful to keep his face expressionless. He didn't particularly enjoy the company of Crabbe and Goyle; they were witless morons, in fact, who routinely grated on his last nerve. But they did have their uses, ones like crushing skulls which he had been counting on to help him stay in one piece this term.

Weasley seemed to read Draco's mind. "Looking a little paler than usual, Malfoy. Afraid you can't back up that fat mouth of yours without a few mates around to help you out?"

A fleeting fantasy of hexing Weasley into a puddle of goo crossed Draco's mind. The threat of expulsion still rang loud and clear in his mind, however, so instead he answered haughtily, "I don't need protecting from _you_, Weasley."

"Would you like to test that theory?"

Hermione's grip tightened on Weasley's arm. "Ron," she hissed through clenched teeth, looking at Draco as if she hoped he would explode, "stop being a prat. It's time to get on the train!"

It was, in fact, four minutes until eleven. The last mad rush of students was pressing forward around them. It would have been the simplest thing in the world for Draco to smirk, shove his trolley past them and hurriedly seek out an empty compartment – except Weasley's hot-headed challenge had just presented Draco with a remarkable idea for proving himself to his classmates without calling down the professors' wrath.

"All right, Weasley," he agreed, drawing even fiercer glares from Hermione. "But you wouldn't be much of a challenge for me. I hear that Potter's becoming quite the experienced wizard – maybe he's up for a duel?"

Potter arched an eyebrow. He looked, Draco thought, rather bored with the situation. "You must think I'm pretty stupid," he replied. "Or have you forgotten about the last time you challenged me to a duel?"

Actually, that long-ago incident in which he had challenged Potter to a duel and then tipped off Filch that Potter and Weasley were out of bed after curfew _had_ slipped Draco's mind. But he played it off, determined to make his newly-formed plan work.

"If you're afraid, Potter, just say so."

Hermione was physically dragging Weasley away. Steam billowed from under the train; if they didn't leave immediately, they would be left on the platform. "Come on, guys," she pleaded. "We're going to be in so much trouble if we miss this train!"

Potter held his ground for half a moment longer. Looking directly into Draco's eyes, he said, with no emotion whatsoever, "I accept."

A funny tightness lodged under Draco's heart – whether it was excitement, fear, or something else altogether, he couldn't tell. He kept his voice equally emotionless as he answered, "Good. See you around."

With that, they both turned and rushed aboard the train.


	2. Changes

**Chapter Two**

Hermione was surprised by how much she enjoyed being back at Hogwarts. Guilty as she'd felt abandoning Harry so soon after Sirius's death, she had to admit that her parents had been right: A few months of lying on beaches, far away from dark wizards and potentially lethal curses, had been just the medicine she needed to recover from last spring's horrors.

Actually, Hermione had been rather trepidatious about returning to school. For one thing, though she was smart enough not to give them too many details about her brush with death, her parents had been decidedly less enthusiastic about this school year than any before it. A letter from Hogwarts Board of Governors to all Muggle parents explaining the situation with Voldemort had done little to ease their minds, but they had seemed resigned to leaving the decision about whether or not to go back solely in their daughter's hands. While Hermione appreciated their confidence and loved them for their concern, she had never seriously considered any other alternative than Hogwarts – it was her home, her life, her future, nothing could change that.

And while Voldemort's return to power had unnerved her, to say the least, it wasn't fear that gave her pause about starting her sixth year at Hogwarts. Rather, it was how divided the school would be between those who supported the self-proclaimed Dark Lord, like Draco Malfoy, and those, such as herself and Harry and Ron, who vehemently opposed Voldemort and everything he stood for. Could the school, such a volatile place anyway, withstand that sort of tension? Would students fight openly in the hallways? Would professors blatantly seek expulsion of students whose parents were known Death Eaters? How much danger would she, Harry, Ron, Ginny, and the other members of the D.A. really be in, and how much protection could they afford one another?

That, and a nagging concern that Harry might be going 'round the bend over Sirius's death, and a silly fear that her new hairdo would be made fun of, kept her up nearly all night before climbing aboard the Hogwarts Express.

Aside from her awkward run-in with Malfoy on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters – if she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was actually _flirting _with her – things had been delightfully normal, however. Better than normal in many ways, really: Now that the O.W.L.s were behind them and career paths had been at least tentatively chosen, Hermione and her classmates were finally given much more latitude in designing their courses of study, all of which promised to be brutal. Hermione suspected she was the only student relishing that fact.

School brought other pleasant surprises as well. For one thing, her new look was received with an almost embarrassing approval; a seventh-year boy from Ravenclaw whose name she didn't even know had asked her to have coffee with him in Hogsmeade, and if Ron hadn't stepped forward and threatened to break his jaw, she might even have accepted. Romance seemed to be blooming all over the place, in fact – Ginny and Dean were inseparable, Neville struck up a totally unexpected courtship with Luna Lovegood, and, best of all, Hagrid slyly reported to them that Remus Lupin and Tonks had slipped off for a quiet weekend together, confirming the Order's suspicions that the two were an item.

Ron was his usual self, perhaps a bit more comfortable in his own skin this year. He was a prefect, of course, and Hermione secretly speculated that he had a good chance of becoming Head Boy (she, of course, fully expected to be made Head Girl, but since everybody else assumed she was a shoe-in, she didn't feel arrogant for expecting it). And Ron's position as Gryffindor's Keeper elevated his school status greatly. He looked different than she remembered, too: He had grown over the summer, towering over her now (Hermione despised that she never seemed to grow taller), and his Quidditch training had filled out his chest, arms and legs. All in all, Ron was shaping up to be quite handsome, so Hermione wasn't surprised when she spotted more than a few fourth- and fifth-year girls goggling at him in the common room.

Harry was hardly himself, but Hermione, who had called him religiously once a week during the summer holidays, was prepared for his somber mood. The first wave of Harry's intense grief had passed quickly, leaving behind a hollowness that had yet to be filled. He was hard-muscled from his own Quidditch practice, having spent a good portion of the holidays at the Burrow with Ron, yet much thinner than the year before; his dark hair still fell in an unruly (and quite charming, she admitted) shag around his handsome face, but his cheeks were somewhat sunken, and dark, sleepless circles ringed his bright green eyes. He was quieter, more withdrawn, always in the background, never angry or sad or particularly happy. He hovered like a shadow in their otherwise sunny lives, and Hermione knew she wasn't the only one desperate for some sort of break in that impenetrable façade, some sign of the Harry from before.

Hagrid said be patient, as Mrs. Weasley had cautioned all summer. Personally, Hermione was hoping that being back at school would bring Harry around. She only hoped the war Voldemort was sure to make on the wizard world – one she was surprised he hadn't yet begun – wouldn't reach them at Hogwarts this year. They needed at least one term without death and mayhem.

So while Hogwarts was noticeably different from previous years, especially in the level of disdain between Slytherin and the other houses, it was also a pleasant place to be.

They received their schedules as usual on their first morning back. Groans went up all around as the sixth-years realized the enormity of their last two years at Hogwarts. Hermione, preparing for a career with the Ministry (probably working in the legal system to protect the rights of magical creatures, like house elves and werewolves), shared four classes with Ron and Harry, each of whom were preparing to be Aurors: Advanced Transfiguration, Advanced Care of Magical Creatures, Sixth-Year History of Magic, and Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts. Whereas Ron and Harry had Potions, Charms and Divination to round out their schedules, though, Hermione had History of Law in Magic, Advanced Arithmancy, and Standard Healing, the last a requirement for any working at the Ministry.

Defense Against the Dark Arts, however, was the subject on everybody's lips. At the welcome feast, Professor Dumbledore had made no mention of a new instructor, and no new faces had appeared at the teachers' table. Rumors spread like wildfire that the Ministry was sending in a team of Aurors to train up students against Death Eaters; Seamus passed on a report from a third-year Hufflepuff whose father supposedly sat on the Wizengamot that no one would take Defense Against the Dark Arts until the Ministry sorted out possible supporters of You-Know-Who; Neville deemed it plausible that Luna's father was right and King Arthur would be returning from Avalon to prepare them for the greatest battle of their time.

Like most students, Hermione thought it much more possible – and much more distressing – that Snape had finally gotten his wish and would be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts in addition to Potions.

Harry alone calmly dismissed this idea in the common room the night before classes. Looking haggard in the dim light, he told Ron and Hermione, "Dumbledore will never let Snape teach students about the Dark Arts. That's one privilege he's lost forever."

Ron arched an eyebrow, skeptical. "I don't know, mate. Dumbledore trusts Snape with a _lot _to still harbor suspicions about him."

"And you have to admit," Hermione chimed in, "nothing good has happened to professors in that position for a long time. Maybe Dumbledore couldn't find anybody else to teach it and he had to appoint Snape."

Harry shrugged. He seemed thoroughly nonplussed by the idea of taking another course with his most-hated professor. "Guess we'll see in the morning," was his final comment before heading off to bed, where, Ron reported quietly to her the next morning, Harry did nothing but toss and turn in the grip of apparent nightmares.

Hermione had little time to worry about Harry that morning as she sat through a grueling yet fascinating lecture in her History of Law class and then jumped back in with both feet to the equally-mesmerizing world of Arithmancy. Ron and Harry's morning had included Potions, and Ron suspected Snape was unusually gleeful in his terrorizing of the students, confirming in his mind that Snape had finally secured his coveted position as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

Harry said little, other than to comment that Draco Malfoy appeared to be in almost every one of their classes. Hermione, who had also been startled to find Malfoy in her Standard Healing class, found that odd. She didn't give much thought to Malfoy, yet she had assumed he would follow in his father's footsteps of taking simple classes and sliding into a cushy, well-paying job at the Ministry. Surely he wasn't studying to be an Auror – but then why was he in the same classes as Harry and Ron? They weren't divided by houses anymore now, but by electives. It simply didn't add up.

She had little time to spare on Malfoy, though, as they finished lunch and hurried to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Glancing around, Hermione saw many familiar faces – lots of Slytherins and Gryffindors – including Malfoy, who was slumped in a corner without his usual goons at his sides, and her friend Susan Bones from Hufflepuff. Ron and Harry sat in front of where she settled in next to Susan, who was eager to hear about her vacation in France.

At precisely one o'clock, the door to the classroom opened and twenty surprised heads turned, having expected the mystery professor to emerge from the office at the front of the room. Instead, Dumbledore breezed in casually, clad as royally as ever in deep-purple robes adorned with silver crescent moons, his white hair and beard flowing from beneath a pointed purple hat.

A hush fell over the students. Hermione braced herself for the worst: Maybe the ridiculous rumors about the Ministry denying this class to all students hadn't been so ridiculous after all, and Dumbledore was here to break the news. She had never seen the Headmaster enter a classroom before and couldn't imagine any hopeful scenario that would bring him here now.

Taking a calm stance in front of them, Dumbledore adjusted his square spectacles on the tip of his abnormally-long nose and offered his trademark serene smile. "Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts," he rumbled at them, in the liltingly-pitched voice that had always reminded Hermione pleasantly of ocean waves at high tide. "As you all no doubt know, I am Professor Dumbledore. I will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year."

A cheer erupted from nearly everyone in the room, with a notable silence from the green-robed Slytherins. Harry twisted around to smile at Hermione, and her heart jumped – it was the first full smile she'd seen on his face since the night Sirius died.

Dumbledore raised a hand for quiet. "As the Ministry of Magic confirmed last spring," he went on, while the students reluctantly left off their celebration, "the wizard who calls himself Lord Voldemort has returned to power."

The silence became more oppressive as a sudden fearful expectation gripped the room. Voldemort had been the elephant in the parlor since they arrived at the train station, but no one had expected a professor to address the issue this openly in class.

"This is a dangerous time for all of us – a dangerous and dark time. We have already suffered loss, terrible loss, at the hands of this wizard and his followers, and I fear that even more loss lies ahead of us."

Hermione's eyes flew to the back of Harry's head. He was sitting rigidly, not looking to the left or right. Ron glanced helplessly back at her, and she shook her head mutely. They couldn't very well interrupt the Headmaster and ask him to be more sensitive to Harry's grief, could they?

"Given the cloud that hangs over us this year, then," Dumbledore continued, his eyes drinking them all in at once, "I have decided, upon request from the Minister of Magic, to take over this course myself. You have been privileged to sit under some very fine Defense Against the Dark Arts professors over the years, and certainly highly-qualified applicants petitioned to be your professor this year. However, I feel that it is time to prepare you for what is to come, for what you may soon be facing no matter how diligently your parents and other adults try to protect you, and frankly, I trust no one but myself to do that."

In the shocked silence that followed, Hermione had to give Dumbledore credit for his brutal honesty. It was quite refreshing to have the cold, hard truth laid out for them as it should have been for adults. She appreciated the respect Dumbledore had just shown them and wasn't surprised when a ripple of applause started.

She was surprised, however, that it started with Harry.

Dumbledore grinned and motioned for silence again. He got right down to business then, explaining that they would not use a formal textbook but could expect to spend a good deal of time in the library researching. Hermione's quill moved as fast as her fingers could to keep up with Dumbledore's first lecture – a captivating description of the most common magical weapons employed by dark wizards. It promised to be an enthralling course, and to just about everyone's delight, Dumbledore assured them that would be practicing the protective and defensive spells they read about. By the end of the hour, Hermione was more excited about Defense Against the Dark Arts than she had been since Professor Lupin introduced the bogart.

As they gathered their books, Dumbledore made one last announcement for the day. "There is only so much I can teach you in the classroom, so I expect, especially for students at your level, that you will do a fair amount of study and practice on your own. In the spirit of that, I have assigned you each a partner to practice our weekly lessons with. At the end of the term, you and your partner will take the practical exam together, and you will be graded on how well you work as a team as well as on your individual abilities."

Hermione suppressed an inward groan. She loathed group projects; inevitably, charitable professors assigned her to the least-talented student in the class – she realized that was arrogant, but true nevertheless – in the hopes that she could be a tutor to them. She reluctantly trudged to the front of the room to see who she would be assisting this semester; Dumbledore had recorded the names on a long scroll of parchment tacked to the far wall.

It took a few minutes for the throng to clear. When she could finally see the scroll, Hermione quickly spotted Ron and Harry's names – Ron was partnered with Susan and Harry with Padma Patil. For a moment, she thought her name might have been left off, but when she saw it at the very bottom, her heart practically stopped.

_This has to be a mistake. Dumbledore wouldn't… Well, he just wouldn't do that to me!_

Yet there it was, plainly evidencec in black and white, and Hermione didn't know whether to feel furious, betrayed, or flattered.

Dumbledore had paired her with Draco Malfoy.


	3. Partners

**Chapter Three**

After two weeks of listening to Ron rail about the injustice of Hermione being forced to work with, as he said, "that evil nutter Malfoy" (at least that was the description that didn't make Hermione blush), she decided it would be up to her to make the first move in the new, unwanted partnership, since Malfoy hadn't so much as glanced her way during Standard Healing or Defense Against the Dark Arts. Hermione suspected Dumbledore had a system for keeping tabs on which students were actually practicing together, and she did not want her grade to suffer because of Malfoy's indifference.

So, after their Standard Healing class on a Monday morning (taught by Madam Pomfrey, whom Hermione utterly adored), she moved quickly to the door and managed to catch Malfoy's arm before he could slide past her.

"What?" he demanded, rather rudely.

Hermione clenched her teeth around a similarly rude response. Fighting would not help her grade in Dumbledore's class – though she had already decided that if Malfoy refused to cooperate, she was going directly to the Headmaster to request a new partner.

The room had emptied by the time she replied, "We need to work out a schedule for practicing our Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons."

Malfoy arched a blond eyebrow at her. Hermione hugged her books tighter to her chest, wishing he didn't manage to look rakishly handsome when she was certain he was about to be insulting. Another little secret she would never share with Ron or Harry was that Malfoy, bastard though he was, was one of the best-looking boys in school.

"So…When would be good for you?" she prompted, as the silence became uncomfortable.

Malfoy dropped his bookbag onto a desk, crossed his arms over his chest and studied her closely. "You mean you didn't go to Dumbledore and ask for a different partner?"

She started. Where had he gotten that idea? "No, I didn't. Don't you think he would have paired you up with someone else by now if I had?"

He shrugged. "I don't feature our Headmaster much cares how well I do in his class."

A protest sprang to Hermione's lips, but she quashed it. Malfoy would never believe Dumbledore was a bigger person than that, not the sort to wish failure on a student because of a parent's wrongs, so she decided to save her breath.

"Well, I haven't asked for a new partner, and I think we should meet soon and catch up with everyone else," she said in a rush. Somehow, conversations with Malfoy seemed easier when conducted quickly. "Harry and Ron have been using the Transfiguration classroom, so I thought I might ask – "

"No thanks," Malfoy interrupted. "Transfiguration is Gryffindor territory."

"It's a classroom, Malfoy."

"Okay, then why don't we ask Snape if we can practice in the Potions classroom?"

The idea of spending her evenings in the dungeons with Malfoy hardly topped Hermione's list of Favorite Things To Do. She glared at him, knowing she should have anticipated an argument over something as simple as where to meet.

_Why does he have to make everything so bloody difficult? No wonder he doesn't have any real friends-!_

She felt guilty for the thought even as it occurred to her. Not that Malfoy had done much to engender good will at Hogwarts, but she couldn't help thinking, when she saw him bolting down his lunch alone in the Great Hall, how lonely he must have been without Crabbe and Goyle hanging around.

Since she had no intention of intimating her sympathy to Malfoy, she focused instead on finding a compromise to the meeting place. "Maybe we could ask Madam Pomfrey about using this room," she suggested. "Or Professor Dumbledore might let us use the Dark Arts classroom."

"I know a place where we wouldn't be interrupted," Malfoy offered, rather tentatively. "It's quiet, out of the way – I'm not sure anyone knows about it but me, really."

A tingle of apprehension shot up Hermione's spine. Go somewhere alone, with Malfoy, where no one else knew where to find them? That just sounded like asking for trouble.

_Face it, girl, it also sounds a tiny bit exciting, _her inner voice chided. _What's he going to do? Murder you? That'd be just a tad suspicious, wouldn't it?_

Granted, the possibility that Malfoy would lure her off to harm her was far-fetched – he would be the automatic first suspect, and she doubted he was eager to join his father in Azkaban. Besides, although they were certainly enemies, it wasn't as if they'd taken blood-oaths against one another; he didn't have anything to gain by hurting her.

And, in the end, Hermione was insightful enough to realize that if she wanted Malfoy's cooperation, she needed to give a little. So she agreed, "All right. Where is this place?"

"I'll show it to you."

"Now?"

"No, Granger, not now." He smirked at her eagerness, and to her horror, Hermione blushed. "Eager to be off with me, aren't you?"

"Don't flatter yourself," she grated out. Thankfully, the blush faded as quickly as it had appeared, enabling her to challenge with some dignity, "So when, then?"

Malfoy pretended to mentally shuffle through a packed social calendar. In spite of herself, Hermione almost grinned.

Almost.

"How about, tonight at nine? I'll meet you out front of the Great Hall."

Hermione hesitated. "Nine? That's just two hours before curfew."

"Just how long are you planning to practice, Granger? Not all of us plan our lives around studying."

She managed not to blush again, serious dislike for Malfoy creeping back into what had been a momentary respite of outright loathing. "Fine," she agreed stiffly. "Nine o'clock tonight sounds fine."

"I hope you've done your studying," Malfoy teased, slinging his bag over his shoulder on his way out the door. "Don't think I'll go easy on you just because you're a girl."

Staring after him with fire in her eyes, Hermione muttered, "Count on it, asshole."

Draco worked steadily on homework in the Slytherin common room until ten minutes to nine. Then he grabbed his wand and sashayed past a group of fourth-years who eyed him warily, barely resisting the urge to turn and yell, "Abra-cadabra!" in their direction.

School thus far had not been easy, yet admittedly, it hadn't been as brutal as Draco had anticipated. Mostly, he was ignored. Only a few people had the guts to make any remarks about his father at all, and those had all been responded to with enough force – magical and physical – to remind everyone that Draco Malfoy was not the sort to be walked on.

Perhaps the biggest blow had come just that day, when he was unceremoniously booted off the Quidditch team. Draco realized he wasn't a phenomenal Quidditch player, and that knowledge had sharpened the sting of his removal. His teammates hadn't even had the balls to tell him to his face, he reflected, stomping down the main staircase toward the Great Hall. Some cowardly git had dropped an official note, signed by Professor Snape (who wasn't in charge of appointing players, after all), onto his pillow that morning.

And now, he had an evening of sparring with Hermione Granger to look forward to.

She was waiting nervously in front of the Great Hall, still clad in the knee-length black skirt and white button-down that comprised part of her Hogwarts uniform. He tried not to remember the curves she'd shown off at the train station or to notice how darling her new haircut still looked, but he had to admit (to himself, anyway) that Granger was becoming a knock-out.

He wasn't the only one to think so, either, Draco knew. Weasley had been making google-eyes at her since second year, but this term, he'd noticed Potter staring wistfully after her as she swept gracefully out of the Great Hall. Not that Draco was shocked by this development, of course. He couldn't imagine a more fitting pair than Granger and Potter, possibly the two biggest do-gooders in the history of Hogwarts.

Hermione seemed surprised that he hadn't bailed on her. "It's this way," he said in greeting.

She fell into step beside him as they descended a narrow staircase toward the dungeons. They said little as they made their way past the level of the classrooms, but Draco noticed her eyes darting about uncertainly. He took a grim pleasure from disturbing her composure, yet he also noted that she didn't question him. Trust was impossible between them, wasn't it?

_Don't get any ideas. She'd do anything for a perfect score on an exam – that's the only reason she's here right now, because it involves a class._

Finally, two levels below the classrooms, Draco stepped off the staircase and opened a heavy wooden door. Its hinges creaked from lack of use. Reluctantly, Hermione stepped past him and into the room that had been Draco's private lair for six years.

"Oh my," she breathed.

Draco was pleased by her response. Unbeknownst to many (probably not Granger, who seemed to have memorized _Hogwarts: A History_), an underground spring flowed beneath the castle. In some places, the lower levels were cut so deep into the earth that the spring actually ran through the castle, conducted along a series of marble-lined aqueducts that guided it back into the ground where the source plunged deeper. This room, totally unused now for centuries, had once been a bath-house for the professors, fed by the warm underground spring itself.

Hermione wandered around the stone archways, admiring the colorful patterns on the marble visible through the crystal-clear water. Four pools were dotted around the room; marble walkways cut between them, leading to narrow stone dressing benches on the far wall from the door. The water poured in through large spouts shaped like lion's heads; the spouts could be opened by a rusty crank beside the door, and the pools were drained by pulling a lever above the crank.

"Is it warm?" Hermione asked from the edge of a pool.

Draco nodded. "Yeah. Stick your hand in."

Tentatively, she dipped her fingers into the water. "It's like bath water," she exclaimed. He saw the connection form in her mind, and she continued, "This used to be the professors' bath house, didn't it?"

"Yup. You're not the only one who's read _Hogwarts: A History_."

He meant it as an insult, a jibe at her bookwormish nature, but Hermione actually grinned. "I always wandered if they'd walled it off," she remarked. "It seems a shame not to use it, don't you think?"

"More fun for me," he replied. This scene was starting to get friendlier than Draco was comfortable with, so he slipped off his robe – it was rather humid near the water – and produced his wand. "Let's get started, okay?"

Hermione nodded. Not surprisingly, she had brought her notes, which she flipped open to the protection spells they'd been practicing the week before. "We should probably start with simple disarming spells," she mused.

Draco snorted. "C'mon, Granger, I mastered those in second year."

"Well, wouldn't it be prudent to refresh – "

"Look, do you want to waste our time going over things we already know? I think we're both advanced enough to skip the baby steps."

A chill fell over the room. Draco couldn't help remembering the shape Hermione had been in when she'd returned from the Ministry last spring – moaning in pain, looking pale and drawn. They'd closeted her away in the hospital wing so long he'd wondered if she was really still alive.

Yes, Hermione knew about advanced spells. She had used them; she had been on the receiving end of them. Not for the first time, Draco wondered how well he'd fare against someone with her experience. But he didn't intend to show one ounce of weakness in front of her, that was for damn sure.

"Fine," she answered coldly. "Let's start with personal shields. Do you want to jinx first, or shall I?"

"Hit me," Draco replied with a grim smile.

And so began sixty minutes of vicious attacks. Hermione progressed them steadily through the protection spells laid out in Dumbledore's first two lectures; it was only four spells, but both she and Draco doggedly tested one another's limits, casting jinxes that sometimes had the other face-down on the floor in a prone, petrified position or wobbling around on uncontrollably shaky legs until the counter-jinx was cast.

By the end of it, they had their sleeves rolled up and a number of bruises to show for their pains. "It's ten," Hermione announced promptly after one hour.

Draco, still feeling stiff from the Petrifying curse she'd used on him a few minutes earlier, gladly stuck his wand back in his robe. He would definitely be studying harder before their next session; she'd gotten the better of him far more times than he'd gotten through her defenses, and he was determined not to let his self-esteem suffer any more blows. Not to mention his bruised backside.

"Ready?" he asked, when she made no move toward the door.

"I'm going to take a dip," she replied, gesturing at the water.

Draco's heart did a backflip. "Um, okay…Guess I'll see you around, then."

"You aren't coming?"

She looked undeniably coquettish standing beside the water with one hand on her hip, an unreadable smile playing across her lips. Draco valiantly fought off a blush.

_She knows exactly what she's doing, _he thought, _and she knows exactly how it's affecting me right now. Damn little vixen!_

Or maybe she didn't. Maybe he was reading too much into it, projecting a manipulative side onto Hermione that she simply didn't possess. Draco sighed inwardly. He was just too weary from their hour-long battle to figure it out.

Ignoring his screaming muscles, he said crisply, "Enjoy your swim, Granger. See you in class."

"Good night," she called after him, sounding – if he wasn't projecting – a little triumphant.

On the other side of the door, Draco refused to consider whether or not she was skinny-dipping. He had a disturbing suspicion that his dreams that night would be peppered with images of Hermione Granger's sleek, naked form gliding through the crystal-clear water toward him.

She had definitely bested him this time around, in more ways than one. But next time, he would be ready for her.


	4. Traitor

_Author's Note: Thanks for pointing out the mistake about having Luna in Ron and Harry's year. I've changed that in Chapter Two. Those kinds of discrepancies drive me crazy in HP fanfic, so I appreciate anybody who points out my mistakes – I try very hard to stay true to Harry's universe!_

**Chapter Four**

Two weeks later, in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, Draco was shaken awake from an increasingly-common dream about Hermione Granger. He grunted, sat up, and scowled so fiercely at the terrified third-year beside his bed that the boy actually stumbled backwards a few steps.

"What is it?" Draco growled, privately thankful that the dream hadn't progressed far enough to create a stain on his sheets – again.

"The Headmaster wants to see you," squeaked the third-year.

"The Headmaster? What for?"

"I-I don't know. I was in the common room, reading, and-and Professor Snape came in and said come get you." The boy gulped. "You're wanted in the Headmaster's office right away."

When Draco furiously kicked the covers back, the boy raced from the room, apparently expecting a physical attack. Draco rolled his eyes as he shrugged into a robe over his pajamas (a pair of gray sweatpants and a white tee-shirt, none of this Slytherin-themed nonsense for him) and headed out of the dormitory. He wasn't _that _vicious, for pity's sake – what stories did the younger students hear about him, anyway?

_All part of the image.__ Don't begrudge it. Right now you need all the respect you can get._

Hogwarts was eerily silent in the pre-dawn hours. A glance at the master clock outside the Great Hall told Draco it was just after five; he fought back a yawn as he stopped in front of what was usually a huge Griffin statue guarding the passageway to Dumbledore's office but was now, simply, a stairwell.

_Guess they're expecting me, _he thought grimly, stepping into the passage. _Wonder what sort of trouble I'm in now…_

He didn't have much time to worry about it, though, because when he stepped off the short staircase Snape, looking rather bleary-eyed himself, ushered him forward into the Headmaster's office, where Dumbledore waited serenely behind an enormous desk. The Sorting Hat snored loudly from a high shelf; Fawkes, Dumbledore's gorgeous phoenix, nodded sleepily at Draco from his perch in the corner.

"Sorry to wake you, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore began gravely. He rose and extended a copy of the Daily Prophet across the desk to Draco. "But I felt you should see this before the rest of your classmates."

No visible sign gave away the utter shock with which Draco register the Prophet's front-page headline:

LUCIUS MALFOY CUTS DEAL WITH MINISTRY

And beneath that, in only slightly smaller script:

THIRTY-ONE DEATH EATERS ARRESTED LAST NIGHT

_You will not react, _Draco's inner voice lectured sternly. _You will show no weakness, no remorse, no fear. Not in front of these people._

He settled calmly into the chair Dumbledore motioned him towards, his face carefully arranged into an expressionless mask. His mind, however, was whirling; his father, his not-beloved-but-still-respected father, had caved. A few months in Azkaban – an Azkaban without the Dementors, even – and Lucius Malfoy cracked? He sold out his revered Dark Lord, his fellow Death Eaters?

Draco couldn't have cared less about Voldemort's ridiculous plans to purge the magical community of "half-bloods" and create a master race of pure-blood wizards. He couldn't have cared less about fairytales of immortality and limitless power. He had often wondered, honestly, how a man as intelligent as his father had been duped by such nonsense; sometimes, he had even considered the possibility that Lucius's zealotry was affected, a persona he had crafted as purposefully as Draco crafted his.

But never, not once, had Draco imagined that his father was weak.

"Your father should be released from Azkaban shortly," Dumbledore was saying, while Snape hovered over his shoulder, "as soon as the Ministry confirms that his information is correct."

Draco swallowed. "It says they arrested thirty-one people," he remarked coolly. "Isn't that confirmation?"

"The arrests are preliminary, pending trials. Every wizard is entitled to his day in court." Dumbledore, elbows resting on his cluttered desk, made a steeple with his fingers and stared over his fingertips at Draco. Behind his half-moon glasses, the Headmaster's piercing blue eyes appeared fathomless, like the ocean itself.

It took every ounce of Draco's self-control not to squirm under that penetrating gaze.

"We are concerned about your safety, Mr. Malfoy. Many of the wizards your father named are parents of your classmates, most of them members of your own house. It seems reasonable that they might wish to take revenge on you, since they obviously can't reach your father."

Draco had assumed, from the moment he saw the newspaper, that this was the reason for his unprecedented trip to the Headmaster's inner sanctum. He said nothing, however, waiting for Dumbledore to put all of his cards on the table before playing his own hand.

Snape chose that moment to enter the conversation. "I had an owl from your mother a short time ago. She said if you wish to come home, we should make arrangements for that immediately."

_Home._ And then Durmstrang. Or would he even still be accepted there after his father had betrayed the Dark Lord? In any case, leaving Hogwarts now would mean sacrificing everything he'd worked for, waving farewell to his plans for a career as a healer. No matter how painful the rest of the term might be, Draco wasn't prepared to give up his future.

Raising his chin, he tabled, "I don't want to leave."

Dumbledore, apparently nonplussed by Draco's decision, resumed control of the meeting. "Certainly, you're welcome to stay. However, we would like to take some precautions." He said the last word carefully, as if it were too delicate to emphasize.

Draco met the knowing blue gaze head-on. "Like what?" he challenged.

Snape, frowning disapproval at his student's tone, countered sharply, "Careful, Draco."

But Dumbledore waved Snape off. "Your dormitory would be the most likely place for…mischief, we'll say, since teachers rarely go there. We could make room for you in a private suite near the hospital wing. You could even do some of your classwork up there for the next few weeks, until things settle down."

_Hide, he means. Run and hide like I've done something to be ashamed of – or worse yet, like I'm scared of those worthless morons!_

"No." Draco spoke quietly, yet his voice was flinty with determination. "I appreciate your concern," his eyes flicked from Dumbledore to Snape, including them both, "but I don't need any special treatment."

Snape's mouth drew into a thin, impatient line. "Draco, I'm not sure you understand the gravity of the situation. These people your father named are facing _years _in Azkaban. Perhaps even worse penalties. Their families – their children – will want revenge, and you will be the most likely target."

"I understand. And the answer is still no." Draco rose. "Is that all?"

Leaning back in his chair, Dumbledore spoke softly. "You realize I could force you to accept these measures, Mr. Malfoy, as a condition of your remaining at Hogwarts. The Board of Governors entrusts me with every student's well-being. They would consider these reasonable steps to protect you."

Draco knew, without knowing exactly _how _he knew, that the Headmaster would not make good on his threat. Locking back onto the wizened gaze, he shrugged and said, "The answer is still no."

A charged silence held for a few seconds. Then, with a smile that looked, to Draco's surprise, almost proud, Dumbledore nodded in surrender. "Very good, Mr. Malfoy. But remember," he added as he stood, "I am not the enemy. You can come to me at any time, with any problem. I am on your side, Mr. Malfoy."

_I very much doubt that, _Draco wanted to say, though of course he didn't – impertinence could only be pushed so far. With a curt nod, he hastily took his leave of the Headmaster's office, walking as swiftly as he could without actually running back to his dormitory.

In the darkness, with his housemates still snoring obliviously around him, Draco threw on his uniform and bolted down to the bath-house. There he sat with his feet dangling in the warm water until he was certain breakfast was almost over; a number of the students, Granger included, subscribed to the Daily Prophet, so by the time the porridge was served, the entire school would know of his father's cowardice. Draco damn sure wasn't eager to face his classmates, to suffer the stares and whispers and hisses that would accompany his appearance in any corner of the school, no matter how brave a face he had put on for Dumbledore and Snape.

His father's radical change of heart made no sense to him. Actually, the revelation that Lucius would turn his back on the one cause he had always seemed immovably dedicated to had rocked the foundations of Draco's world. He didn't like his father; he didn't agree with him on most things. Yet he had always admired Lucius's strength, his ferocity, his loyalty – had tried, to some extent, to hone those same qualities in himself. Now, none of those attributes seemed real, merely affectations of a man who couldn't face the consequences of his choices, couldn't protect the allies he had sworn were closer to him than blood-brothers.

_I will not be him, _Draco decided fiercely, sometime while the rest of Hogwarts was waking up and trudging sleepily down to the Great Hall. _I won't be weak. I won't be frightened. I won't back down. I'll show all of them, all of them, what it really means to be a Malfoy._

And so, shortly before the bell in the clock tower struck its reminder that they should be hurrying to class, Draco emerged from the dungeons, slipped silently from the shadows of the Great Hall, and caught Harry Potter's arm.

Potter stared at him in surprise. "What do you want?" he demanded, sounding more curious than angry.

Draco ignored the stares they were attracting. Luckily, Granger and Weasley were nowhere in sight; for some reason, Draco didn't want to look into Hermione's hazel eyes as he said what he knew had to be said.

"Still up for our duel, Potter?"

Potter's eyes widened slightly – but not in fear. Draco doubted Potter was truly afraid of much.

"Sure," he replied, without hesitation. "When?"

"Saturday night. By the split oak in the Forbidden Forest – do you know it?"

"I know it."

"Good. Be there at midnight. And bring a second."

Potter nodded mutely. And with that, Draco's legacy began: He would not be remembered as the son of Slytherin's greatest traitor, but as the wizard who bested The Boy Who Lived.


	5. Deals

**Chapter Five**

Hermione and Ron reacted just as Harry would have predicted to the news of his impending duel with Malfoy: Hermione immediately warned him not to go through with it, and Ron insisted on being his second.

As they huddled in the library between classes, Hermione leaned in, her eyes dark and serious, to whisper urgently, "Harry, it's against the law! Don't you think you've already run far enough afoul of the Ministry?"

"We've broken the law before," Harry reminded her.

"Yes, but not for something stupid like settling a score with Draco Malfoy!" She flopped back in her chair, exasperated. Harry thought again how pretty she looked this year – and, again, felt guilty for thinking it. "Just tell him you're not doing it. He's only trying to get you into trouble, Harry, to deflect the attention off of himself."

Ron broke in, "Who cares why he's doing it? This is our chance to kick the little bastard's ass. I say we do it."

Harry grinned back at Ron. He appreciated the support. Hermione, however, was unimpressed by Ron's solidarity. She shot hotly at him, "And what about you, Ron? If you get caught, you'll be stripped of your Prefect's badge for sure, _if _you don't get expelled! How is your mother going to take that?"

The mention of Mrs. Weasley was a low blow. Ron paled but recovered quickly. "It's Harry's decision," he declared bravely. "If he's fighting Malfoy, I'll be his second. I wouldn't trust anybody else to do it."

"Don't we have more important battles to be fighting?" Hermione pleaded. A few students glanced their way, causing her to lower her voice as she continued, "Think about it for a minute, Harry. You-Know-Who is out there right now, recruiting for the cause, and Dumbledore just told us himself that we have a long fight ahead of us. Why risk being kicked out of Hogwarts now? Don't you both want to become Aurors and fight more important people than Malfoy?"

Harry ran a hand through his hair, already weary of the argument. From the moment he'd agreed to the duel, he'd known he would never bring Hermione around to his point of view; arguing was futile, because neither of them were going to change their minds on this.

_How could I explain it so she'd understand? _Harry wondered, noting the genuine concern for his well-being shining in her hazel eyes. _Everyone here is watching me. They're all waiting for me to set the tone, to show them how it's done, how we fight this…evil. If it weren't for that, I'd have died myself this summer, to go be with Sirius and my parents. I can't back down from Malfoy, not with everyone looking to me – but how could I make her see that?_

The truth was, he couldn't. Hermione would never accept that this war didn't adhere to the rules of Hogwarts or even those of the Ministry of Magic. It was just that – a war. They made the rules up as they went along, and discarded them as needed.

"I have to do this," he told her simply. "And I need to know you won't go to Dumbledore or any other professor about it."

The glare she fixed on him was acidic. "Don't be stupid," she snarled, before stalking out of the library.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Forget about her," he encouraged Harry. "But listen, she says Malfoy's pretty good – they're doing this thing for Dumbledore's class, you know. Maybe we ought to, you know, practice a little, between now and Saturday."

"You're just wanting to get away from Susan," teased Harry. "I've seen the doe eyes she makes at you, mate. Anything you want to tell me…?"

Ron groaned. "Don't remind me. Talk about a nutter. She's almost as bad as Loony Lovegood – don't tell Neville I said that, okay?"

As they grabbed their bags and headed for class, Ron asked, with purposeful nonchalance, "So…you don't think Malfoy's after killing you or anything, do you?"

Harry shook his head. "Doubtful. The Malfoys don't seem cut out for Azkaban."

Although Ron snickered at that, Harry could tell he wasn't convinced – and to be honest, neither was Harry.

Granger wasn't waiting outside the Great Hall for their practice session that evening at nine. Draco wasn't exactly shocked not to find her there; even if Potter hadn't told her about the duel, which Draco assumed he had, word of it had spread like wildfire through the school – just as Draco had intended.

If the professors didn't catch wind of it, it would be a small miracle.

Draco tried not to be disappointed about Granger's absence as he tromped down the stairwell to the bath-house, alone. He had stayed visible for most of the day, smirking as the rumors about the duel circulated and escalated, holding his head high whenever a fellow Slytherin cast him a murderous look. The news of his impending battle with Potter had diffused much of the anger, exactly as Draco had anticipated, although not everyone was eager to welcome him back into the fold – that would only come _after _he put The Boy Who Lived to shame in their duel. Yet many Slytherins appeared ready to accept that even if Lucius Malfoy had jumped ship, Draco was still firmly aligned with the Dark Forces, and as such they willingly granted him some much-needed grace.

Still, Draco wasn't anxious to spend the evening staring people down in the common room, so once he discovered that Granger was blowing off their practice session he decided to hang out in his private sanctuary until curfew, when he would sneak upstairs in case Snape was doing a bed-check on him. His bookbag was crammed with study materials, and soaking in a nice warm pool was as good a way as any to pass tedious hours of reading.

But to Draco's astonishment, Granger was waiting for him inside the bath-house.

He hid his surprise well, covering by dropping his bag to the floor with a solid _thump _and remarking snidely, "Didn't expect you to show, Granger. Planning to take me out before I face your boyfriend?"

She ignored the dig about Potter. He suspected that was because it was true, and he hated himself for being jealous over it. "I'm not here to practice," she snapped, marching over to him with fiercely-glowing eyes. "I'm here to ask you to call off the duel."

Draco arched an eyebrow. This was a scenario he hadn't envisioned: Granger, looking even more striking than usual when furious, begging for her boyfriend's safety.

Coolly, he countered, "If Potter wants to back out, tell him to do it himself."

She snorted derisively. "Don't flatter yourself. Harry isn't afraid of you. I'm asking you myself." She waited a beat, staring directly into his eyes, thoroughly earnest. "Call it off, Draco."

He started. Never, not once, in the entire six years they had known one another, had Hermione Granger called him by his first name.

The effect it had on him caused Draco to respond with more venom than he'd intended. "And what makes you think," he demanded acidly, "that I would do anything for you?"

Granger didn't flinch. In two swift steps she closed the distance between them, caught the front of his uniform shirt, and pulled him down into a bruising kiss.

She took Draco's breath away. His knees nearly buckled; he swayed into her, then quickly braced himself and wrapped one arm around her small waist and drew her closer. She tasted faintly of pumpkin juice, a quite intoxicating sweetness that made his head swim. Her lips were cool but he could feel the heat of her, a heat he wanted to touch; he parted her lips deftly with his tongue – she didn't resist – and explored the silky-smoothness of her cheeks.

Her hands were in his hair, her body pressed so tightly to his that Draco realized, somewhere in his increasingly-fogged mind, that she could feel exactly how much he was enjoying the kiss. A kiss that seemed endless, that stole his senses even as it stole his breath.

He could have kissed her forever. It was Hermione who pulled back, breathless and flushed, after what suddenly seemed far too short of a kiss.

"Wow," was the only semi-intelligible response Draco could manage. He was certain his face was as pink as hers, knew his breathing was just as labored.

He should have been embarrassed, but he wasn't.

Hermione – he couldn't possibly think of her as Granger now – seemed rather shocked at herself. She half-turned away and gestured uncertainly toward the edge of the bathing pool. "Um…Maybe we should…sit?"

Draco, feeling slightly rubber-kneed, agreed. They kicked their shoes off in silence and sat with their toes under the warm water, side-by-side but not touching. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful; he wanted to hold her hand. Yet none of it seemed _right_.

_Or maybe you're just afraid to make the first move, afraid to be rebuffed…_

She spoke before he could muster the courage to say or do anything. "I'm asking you to call off the duel. Please."

A cold fury swirled in Draco's stomach. The _duel_? The bloody duel? Was that what all of this was about?

He could have spit with frustration. Their practice sessions had been, in Draco's opinion, increasingly laced with tension; he could have sworn Hermione felt the same attraction to him that he felt to her, that her kiss had been the culmination of that desire. But _– _

_The duel_? Was that kiss, amazing as it was, a ploy to use his feelings against him? To protect Potter, the person she really cared about?

The possibility of emotional manipulation turned Draco's blood, super-heated by passion seconds before, to ice. He withdrew into his well-guarded shell, exuding cold indifference. "Don't think one kiss is going to change my mind, Granger. It wasn't that good."

She did flinch at that. He tried to be glad that he'd wounded her…and almost succeeded.

Turning to him, she asked, with no small amount of desperation, "And what would be enough to change your mind, Malfoy? Name it, and it's done."

Draco stared at her in disbelief. God, could she really think that of him? It was disgusting, absolutely repulsive. He was many things, yes, and purported to be much more than he actually was, but he had never (at least in Draco's opinion) cultivated the image of himself as some pervert who would swap sex for…

Well, _anything_.

"My, my, Granger," he taunted, concealing his true emotions behind a cocky façade, "you must really be in love with Potter to sink this low."

"Shut-up. Just shut-up." She glared at him, furious once more. "You're really an idiot, you know that?"

"Hey, you're the one throwing yourself at me."

"I am _trying _to help you!" She kicked her feet hard in the water, spraying them both, though she didn't seem to notice – or care. "You could be expelled for this. Is that what you want? Are you really so desperate to get away from here that you're looking for a way to be kicked out?"

His shrug was decidedly non-committal. "We only get expelled if we get caught."

"I heard twelve conversations about this today. _Twelve_. Do you think there is even the slightest chance that Dumbledore won't hear about this? Especially when he has every professor in school watching your back twenty-four hours a day?"

Draco glanced casually around. "I don't see any professors down here. Maybe you're being paranoid, Granger."

"I wouldn't count on this place staying secret for long, Malfoy. But even if it does, a rumor like this can't be kept a secret. You will get caught."

"So then you'll be shut of me. But if it's Potter you're worried about, don't be. He's the Ministry's golden boy. I'm sure he won't be expelled." Draco tried but failed to keep the bitterness out of his next words. "I should think you'd be pleased to see me go."

Hermione hopped to her feet, fairly hissing with rage. "You know what? I should be. If I had a brain in my head, I would be thrilled to see you kicked out of here and shipped off to Durmstrang or whatever other worthless school would even touch your family right now."

_Ouch_. Draco decided refusing to engage her anger was the best way to infuriate her, so he hid his scorched pride behind a chiding, "So what's the hang-up, Granger? Disappointed we won't have another randy little snog if I get kicked out?"

He leapt to his feet and grabbed her wrist in a vice-like grip before she could back away. "What's the matter, Granger? Potter leave something to be desired? Or are you just slumming it for a while?"

"You're disgusting." Hermione yanked her arm free. "You're disgusting _and _you're the thickest person I've ever met." He was startled to see tears sparkling in her eyes. "Harry's the most powerful wizard I've ever met, you know. And I don't just mean students. This Voldemort you and your father have such a yen for, Harry has bested him every time they've met. Even Dumbledore knows Harry is more powerful than any other wizard alive. And you're stupid enough to challenge him to a duel?"

A knot of apprehension formed in Draco's stomach. She was making a duel with Poter sound like veritable suicide; he realized, of course, that Potter was a gifted wizard, but admittedly, he hadn't considered that he might be quite so out-matched by him.

_Or maybe I'm just assuming Potter's too much of a do-gooder to play dirty, to use his full power against someone he knows isn't that dangerous to him…_

Draco disliked the sound of that, so he hastily shrugged it off. "I'm flattered that you're so concerned," he sneered at Hermione. "But I think you should mind your own business."

"Harry is my business."

Wounded to the core by those words, Draco fought the urge to race from the bath-house, burst into the Gryffindor common room and pummel Potter into a bloody pulp. He struggled to keep his voice devoid of all emotion except arrogance.

"That's sweet, Granger. Really touching. So did Potter send you down here to beg for him? Did he ask you to snog me so I'd agree not to fight him?" She started for the door; he followed her, determined to rankle her as badly as she had him. "And by the way, how does Weasley feel about the two of you? He still follows you around like a little puppy-dog, you know. Maybe he's hoping Voldemort will snuff Potter and give him a clear shot at you, ya think?"

Hermione tossed her hair haughtily over one shoulder and eyed him knowingly. "For someone who couldn't give a shit about me, Malfoy, you seem rather preoccupied with my love life."

He hated that know-it-all look. Bristling, he shot back, "Tell Potter I won't back out of the duel. If he's too scared to fight me, that's his problem."

Abruptly, the fight seemed to vanish from Hermione. Hand on the door, she dropped her eyes and shook her head sadly. "You're wasting it," she said softly.

"Wasting what?" he fairly bit out, more than ready to be finished with this wretched scene and alone with his fury and confusion.

Her eyes met his for one breath-taking, heart-wrenching second. "Everything." She turned on her heel, apparently satisfied with leaving exactly what he was wasting a mystery, and pushed wordlessly out of the room.

Draco didn't move until he heard her footsteps echo away up the stairs. Then he threw his head back and roared at the ceiling, unleashing a deep, guttural scream that reverberated off the stone walls but didn't escape the room.

He screamed for his father, for Lucius's miserable betrayal of his friends and his son.

He screamed for Hermione, for the kiss that would probably make all future kisses pale in comparison.

He screamed for Potter, too, for the narrow-minded sense of right and wrong that had kept him from choosing Slytherin house over Gryffindor, for the destiny that had made them enemies when they should have been friends, two brilliant wizards shuffling off the wars of their fathers and striking out on their own paths, free of the past and its horrors.

He screamed for himself, for his own pain and loneliness and heartache.

He screamed for his own stupidity at falling, totally and helplessly, for a girl who would never, ever fit into his life.

He screamed for all the things that could have been and now, never would be.

He screamed until his voice gave out and his throat ached. Then, utterly spent, he lay back on the warm stones, closed his eyes, and fell into a troubled sleep.


	6. Argument

**Chapter Six**

By some miracle, the professors did not find out about the impending duel between Draco and Harry. Hermione wasn't entirely certain how this was possible when it was basically the only thing the students were talking about; the Slytherins – excepting several of those whose parents were now in Azkaban thanks to Lucius Malfoy – rallied nicely around Draco, initiating a campaign of taunts and insults against Harry, while the rest of the school stood staunchly in support of The Boy Who Lived. In fact, Hermione became so irritated by complete strangers cheering Harry on to victory as they walked down the halls that she actually threatened a group of second-years with detentions if they mentioned the duel again, the first time she had ever abused her Prefect status.

She considered more than once anonymously informing Dumbledore of the duel, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Part of her was hoping that Harry or Draco one would come to their senses before Saturday and call the whole insane scenario off; the other part couldn't quite believe that the Headmaster wouldn't find out about the duel some other way, leaving her blameless in whatever punishment Harry and Draco received.

_Draco. _Hermione vacillated between wanting to kill him, wanting to cry her eyes out over him, wanting to kiss him until his knees buckled, and wanting to kill him. She was an emotional mess, and try as she might to hide it, she knew that at least Ginny noticed. If Harry and Ron found her distracted moods and ragged temper unusual, they apparently chalked it up to her being furious with them – which she was.

Of all Gryffindor house, only Hermione and Ginny expressed reservations about the duel. They discussed it together for long hours and both agreed that not only was expulsion a real possibility if Draco and Harry were caught – dueling was, after all, against the law – but that with Harry's grief over Sirius still raw and Draco's pride still severely wounded by his father's treachery, it was an even worse possibility that the duel might get out of hand. Hermione didn't believe Harry would intentionally hurt Malfoy, at least not seriously, but would he be able to control himself when facing the nephew of his godfather's killer – the closest he would probably ever get to facing Bellatrix Lestrange herself?

And how far would Draco be willing to go to prove his undying loyalty to Voldemort and the ideals of Slytherin house?

Draco studiously ignored Hermione during their two classes together, so even if she had wanted to speak with him – which she didn't, she was still too mortified by having kissed him like kissing was going out of style – she couldn't have. And by Friday morning, when her every attempt to reason with Harry had been rebuffed, she had finally stopped speaking to him as well.

"Don't you think you're being a little bit ridiculous?" Ron ventured Friday afternoon. He had sought out Hermione in the library where she was ostensibly writing a report on healing potions for Madam Pomfrey but was actually silently fuming over Harry and Draco's combined immaturity. "Harry could use your support right now, Hermione. He's worried that you'll never forgive him for this."

"Then why doesn't Harry come talk to me himself?"

"Well…He, uh, he asked Neville to help him practice for tomorrow night – "

Hermione barely suppressed a strangled cry of rage, but Ron got the picture. He scampered out of the library and didn't try talking to her again for the rest of the day.

The truth of the matter was, on top of her worry about Harry's safety (and Draco's, if she was entirely honest), Hermione was impossibly confused by her feelings for both of them. Ever since the start of term, Harry had been treating her differently – opening doors for her, carrying her books between classes, once even quietly taking her hand as they strolled down to Hagrid's cabin (Ron had been serving a detention with Professor Sprout for cursing loudly when a Mandrake bit his finger). She couldn't deny that Harry was growing up to be gorgeous, or that when he'd wrapped his fingers around hers, she had really, really wanted the walk to Hagrid's to last forever. She supposed she'd always had a bit of a crush on Harry – Cho Chang was a complete imbecile for giving him up, in Hermione's opinion – yet she also wasn't blind to Ron's feelings for her. The conflict a romance between her and Harry would cause for their friendship with Ron was almost too painful to consider.

And then, there was Draco. A boy she normally couldn't stand to be in the same room with. Just thinking about the trouble he had caused for her, Harry and Ron over the last six years made her regret that Crouch-as-Mad-Eye hadn't permanently transformed him into a ferret. But then again, when they were alone together, Draco sometimes showed a different side. Not that he became all goopy and sweet; admittedly, part of Hermione's attraction to him was the "bad boy" image. Yet she sensed a depth to him during their practice sessions that she would have thought impossible just a few months ago. More and more, she realized that Draco was a product of his upbringing, a damaged and lost young man whose father was largely responsible for his anger and self-imposed isolation, and she had also begun to understand that Draco's plans for the future had little if anything to do with Voldemort. After a few hours of studying the career brochures they had been given last year before their O.W.L.s, she had discovered that Draco's coursework was spot-on with a profession in healing.

Draco the Healer. Odd, but somehow, not completely unthinkable. He was a gifted wizard, especially with potions. And he rivaled her knowledge in their Standard Healing class. Somebody who wanted to devote his life to helping others couldn't be all bad, could he?

Not to mention, he was quite as gorgeous as Harry, really. They were polar opposites even in appearance: Harry had wavy dark hair, arresting emerald-green eyes, and a tall, lanky build with muscles wrapped tight around the bones; Draco had stick-straight, baby-fine blonde hair, pale blue-grey eyes, and a shorter, more compact body than Harry's, still thin but not as wiry. What girl wouldn't have found them both attractive?

After hiding out and agonizing over her romantic dilemma in the library through dinner and most of the evening, Hermione was finally forced back to the common room as curfew neared. When she stepped through the portrait hole, she was surprised to find only one person still up – Harry, slouched on a sofa in front of the fire.

He looked equally startled to see her. "Hi," he offered hesitantly.

She briefly considered ignoring him, but optimism got the better of her: Maybe she could still talk him out of this ridiculous contest. Crossing to the sofa, she sat down beside him and answered, "Hi."

They sat in silence for a while, watching the flames dance and crackle in the hearth. Inevitably, Hermione was reminded of the previous year, when they had hunkered by the same fire hoping desperately for a glimpse of Sirius's head in the flames. Tears pricked her eyes. How tragic for Harry to lose the one person who could have been a parent to him; how senseless for Sirius's chance at a new life, a life with the godson he adored, to be cut short by someone as hideous as Bellatrix Lestrange…

Harry turned toward her, and she hastily blinked back her tears. "I'm sorry you're mad at me," he began shyly. "I've missed you."

"Oh, Harry." Hermione blew out a shaky breath, feeling teary again, then abruptly irritable. Why was she such an emotional basket-case these days? If this was what growing up felt like, she wouldn't mind skipping it. "Stop apologizing. And stop being so bloody nice."

"Okay." He hesitated. "How should I be?"

"Be honest with me." Hermione pulled her legs up on the sofa and angled herself toward him, searching his achingly-beautiful eyes for the truth. "Why are you doing this? Why fight Malfoy?"

Harry looked back at the fire. He was quiet for so long she began to think he wasn't going to answer. Finally, with the slightest shift of his gaze, he murmured, "It's not what you think."

"And what's that?"

"It's not revenge. I don't blame Malfoy for Sirius's death." He continued to look away, his voice distant. "I don't blame anyone but me for that."

Hermione's heart broke for him. How long had he been carrying the burden of guilt all alone? Why didn't he feel he could tell her these things? She reached out and laid a hand over his, squeezing tight. "Harry, I'm not going to tell you that you made a good decision in going to the Ministry that night. But you're wrong if you think you're the one responsible for Sirius's death. Voldemort has to take some of the blame. The rest of it falls on the person who murdered him."

At the word 'murder,' Harry shuddered. "He wouldn't have been there if I hadn't been so stupid, Hermione." He drug his eyes back up to hers; the depth of agony there took Hermione's breath. "I was so certain, so convinced I could save him, I never even stopped to think…I wanted to think of this all as some kind of game, like wizard's chess. I know people have died, it's not that, I just…I never thought Sirius could be one of them."

"Sirius loved you, Harry. Loving you kept him sane in Azkaban. Loving you gave him back his soul once he escaped." She drew in a steadying breath, hoping against hope that Harry was ready to hear what she had to say next. "Sirius wouldn't want you to punish yourself for his death, Harry, whether you're to blame for it or not – and I don't think you are. He would want you to go on living, to be happy, to do good with your life. And Harry, you have to know, he wouldn't want you to risk everything you have here at Hogwarts just to settle a score with Draco Malfoy."

"I told you, it's not revenge." Harry didn't sound angry, just tired. "This is something I have to do, Hermione. I understand if you don't agree. I just hope you won't stay mad at me forever."

Remembering Ron's words, Hermione winced. Did Harry really think she was the kind of friend who would drop him because of an argument? Pulling his hand up to her face, she rested her cheek against his palm and smiled at him. "Harry Potter, I can be royally pissed off at you and still be your friend. I care about you, you little idiot, haven't you noticed?"

In a flash, the atmosphere between them changed. Hermione saw the heat flare in Harry's eyes, as if the fire had seeped into him from the hearth. Her own temperature rose, reflecting the want she saw in his face, mirroring the uncertainty she read in his gaze.

_Can we do this? Should we do this?_

_What about Ron?_

_What about Draco…?_

Harry decided before she could. When he leaned in, she didn't pull away; she waited, frozen and burning all at once, her eyelids flickering shut instinctively as his lips brushed across hers. A thrill raced down her spine. She had often day-dreamed about kissing Harry, and now, she was going to find out if reality came close to fantasy.

It did. His hands trembled slightly on the sides of her face as he tilted her chin upward and pressed his mouth firmly to hers. Hermione felt herself melt at his tenderness. He kissed sweetly, tentatively, each gentle caress of her cheek promising that he would not rush her; she caught his wrists and tugged him closer, anxious to deepen the kiss, to release the cagey energy snaking through her veins.

A bang at the portrait hole sent them scurrying apart. Hermione fell back against the cushions as Harry jumped to his feet, flushed and shaking. Seamus and Dean stumbled in, laughing and smelling strongly of butterbeer.

She quickly turned her face away, afraid her scarlet cheeks would announce exactly what had been going on before the interruption. But Seamus and Dean seemed not to notice anything unusual; they slurred out some story of finding a stash of butterbeer in the kitchens and then stumbled up the steps, singing a bawdy rendition of a Wyrd Sisters song.

After their noisy exit, a heavy silence fell over the room. Hermione twirled her hair around her finger, fidgeting, wondering what to say after kissing her best friend like kissing was going out of style – something which seemed to be becoming a habit for her…

"I've been wanting to do that all term."

Harry's admission made her grin. Relieved to have a sense of normalcy returned, Hermione teased, "So why haven't you?"

"For one thing, Ron's likely to turn me into a toad when he finds out. For another," Harry paused, watching her closely, "I thought you might be interested in someone else." Hermione's heart stopped. "Like…Malfoy?"

She knew the heat in her cheeks gave her away. "You couldn't understand," she murmured, suddenly longing to escape to her bed and hide the shame of falling for a sworn enemy. "He can be…different when it's just the two of us."

Harry nodded stiffly. She couldn't tell if he was angry, disgusted, jealous – or all three. "And now?"

_Don't be stupid! You can't have a future with Draco Malfoy. Whatever you feel for him, it could never work. But Harry…You could have Harry, you could be good for Harry, you could be happy together!_

Hermione bit the inside of her lip while a private war raged silently inside of her. She cared for Harry; she was undeniably attracted to him; their relationship made sense in many ways. But she also had feelings for Draco, impotent and strange as they might be. Harry deserved a girl who could be entirely his, not a girl who had settled for what was convenient.

"I don't know yet," she confessed, hating how her words visibly stung him. "Harry, you're so precious to me, I'm just…confused…right now. I need time to think."

Reluctantly, Harry nodded. "Okay." He glanced sideways at her. "Are you still mad at me about the duel?"

"I think furious might come closer to it, actually."

"Do you think that'll last for a while?"

"If you don't get expelled, we can have a big row about it on Sunday."

Smiling wryly, Harry leaned down to give her a quick kiss on the cheek before disappearing upstairs to bed. Hermione sat for a long time, staring into the fire and wishing things could be simple again.

By eleven o'clock Saturday night, one hour before the duel was set to commence, Hermione had managed to torture herself into a migraine by trying to sort out her feelings for Harry and Draco. When the Creevey brothers began a rousing rendition of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" and Dean produced a banner that read "Go Harry, Kill Malfoy," she finally flounced upstairs to the dormitory in disgust. Ginny, with a sidelong glance at Harry that made Hermione wonder if that crush had been totally laid to rest, quickly followed after her.

They silently changed into pajamas. Then Ginny, stretching out alongside Hermione in her bed, asked, "Are you still worried?"

Hermione played with her best friend's long, silky red hair – a favorite pastime of theirs, lying in Hermione's bed and twirling each other's hair while they gossiped. "Yeah, I am." She sighed, her head pounding at the temples. "Let's just go to sleep, okay? Maybe we'll wake up and it'll all have been a dream."

Ginny quickly fell asleep, but, despite her killer headache, Hermione could not doze off. Her mind was racing, which did nothing to ease the throbbing in her skull, and she kept envisioning Draco and Harry's lifeless bodies laying in the hospital wing. Finally, at five minutes to twelve, she couldn't stand it any longer: She had to catch a glimpse of what was happening on the grounds.

Sliding out of bed carefully so as not to wake Ginny, who never stirred, Hermione crept to the window – everyone else was still down in the common room – and stared down at Hagrid's cabin. It was late October, just days before the Halloween feast, and the trees had already lost most of their leaves; their naked, bony arms stretched up into the star-speckled sky, swaying eerily in the cold nighttime wind. Winter always came early to Hogwarts. Already the grounds were blanketed by a thin layer of frost most mornings, and soon, the lake would be frozen and snowflakes would dance outside their classroom windows. Feeling the chill on the other side of the dormitory window, Hermione hugged her blanket tighter around her shoulders.

Moments later, she saw Draco and a Slytherin boy she recognized but whose name she couldn't recall walking quickly toward the Forbidden Forest. His audacity astonished her; Ron and Harry had taken the Invisibility Cloak, since they had to cross an open expanse of lawn and pass directly in front of Hagrid's cabin to get to the split oak. Draco appeared to have no fear of being spotted.

_Is he insane? _she wondered, shaking her head in disbelief. _It's so bright out, Dumbledore could be looking out his window right now and see them-!_

Hermione's heart suddenly stumbled in her chest. Mouth dry, palms sweaty, she forced her eyes up, up, up, above the tops of the skeletal autumn trees, to where a bright, perfectly-round disk illuminated the Hogwarts castle with all the brilliance of a late-afternoon sun.

_A full moon._

She dropped the blanket from her nerveless fingers and, clad only in a thin pair of pajama pants and a tank-top, raced at top speed from Gryffindor Tower, out of the castle, and toward the Forbidden Forest.


	7. Duel

**Chapter Seven**

Draco led the way to the split oak with Ivan Nuxoll, a brawny fifth-year who had volunteered to be his second, hurrying after him. The crisp night air cleared Draco's mind; he'd been feeling slightly befuddled from the butterbeer Pansy Parkinson had snuck up to the common room for his "sending off," as she called it.

_And damn Hermione Granger, I couldn't even enjoy that rousing good-luck kiss Pansy gave me…_

Shoving thoughts of Granger aside, Draco reviewed for perhaps the millionth time that day the range of spells he could use against Potter. The trick, Draco had decided, was to catch his opponent off-guard with a powerful spell right out of the gate – at least that was what the dueling books he'd been reading recommended. Deep down inside, where he didn't like to poke around too much for fear of what he might discover about himself, he had to admit, though, that he was a bit worried about setting the bar too high up-front: Just as he had with Quidditch, he had to realize that Potter was a more talented wizard than he was; unpleasant as that might be for Draco's ego, correctly estimating his opponent's power was crucial to not only surviving but _winning_ this duel.

So he couldn't defeat Potter through an out-right contest of innate power, Draco had accepted that. But power wasn't everything; there was still cunning, determination and strategy, all of which Draco had in abundance.

The split oak loomed into view. Weasley stood in front of the tree, arms crossed belligerently over his broad chest; Potter stood calmly to one side, clad, like Draco, in his school robes.

"Thought maybe you'd changed your mind," Weasley called as Draco closed the distance between them.

_Dream on, Weasley, you over-grown carrot. I wouldn't miss this for the world._

"Hardly," Draco answered smoothly. He stopped a few yards away and nodded at his opponent, noting how perfectly at ease Potter seemed. He couldn't help wondering if it was just a façade, like his own bravado – inside, was Potter feeling as shaky as Draco?

Careful to keep his voice steady, revealing none of his inner nervousness, Draco called, "Ready, Potter?"

Potter pushed off from the tree he'd been leaning against and took a couple of confident steps forward. Draco wondered if he, too, was remembering their duel in second-year, when Lockhart had attempted his ill-fated dueling club.

"Whenever you are, Malfoy."

Ron took control as Draco and Potter stared each other down. "Produce wands!" he barked. Instinctively, both pulled their wands from their pockets and raised them in front of their faces. Draco's palm was slippery with sweat.

"Present wands!"

They flourished their wands at one another, bowing low without breaking eye contact. Draco's heart hammered painfully in his chest.

_This is it – this is it – this is- _

"Commence duel!"

_-it!_

Draco drew a breath, saw Potter do the same. He winged up a silent prayer for victory to whatever gods existed, leveled his wand, and shouted –

"Harry! Harry, stop!"

Draco's voice froze in his throat. Glancing over his shoulder, he was shocked to see Hermione Granger, cheeks flushed from the cold, racing barefoot toward them over the frosted ground. Her pretty eyes were wide with terror.

A flash of rage shot through Draco. So she had come after all, to protect the man she really loved, to save Potter, without even a moment's thought for _him_…

Well, damn her. Ignoring the ache that had opened up in his chest, Draco swung his eyes back to Potter, who, completely distracted by Granger's unexpected entrance, appeared to have forgotten about the duel.

Draco saw his advantage and used it well.

"_Crucio_" he cried.

A purple light shot from the end of his wand and connected solidly with his opponent's chest. Potter's green eyes widened in surprise and then, with a scream that made Draco's hair stand on end, he crumpled into a writhing mass on the ground.

Draco's wand felt hot, like a poker left in a hearth. The energy surging through his fingers was different than any he'd ever felt before – stinging, grating, like a poison dumped into his veins. His arm trembled with the effort of keeping the spell aimed at his shrieking enemy.

_This is wrong – lift it, stop it –_

Before Draco could respond to his inner voice, he heard Granger scream from behind, "Ron, watch out!"

Draco half-turned, ready to tell her off, to inform her that he was not going to attack Potter's second without provocation. But in that awful instant he saw what had drawn Granger into the middle of their duel in the first place.

Standing directly behind Ron, crouched in obvious attack position, was a werewolf.

Draco's stomach dropped into his shoes. His wand fell limply to his side, the spell ended. Terror, cold and paralyzing, welled up inside of him, overpowering his urge to flee for the castle as fast as his feet would carry him.

And underneath the fear, his inner voice berated him: _A full moon. A full moon, you bloody idiot – you'll be lucky if you don't all die..._

Potter had stopped writhing but remained moaning on the ground. Weasley turned and stared in mute horror at the monstrously beautiful creature, all spindly limbs and dagger-sharp teeth, its silvery brown fur glowing in the moonlight.

Slowly, the werewolf looked from Weasley, to Draco, to Ivan, to Potter, to Granger. In one awful instant, Draco knew who it had chosen.

_Granger-!_

Hermione, reading the intent in the werewolf's coal-black eyes, uttered a terrified shriek and took one tiny step backwards. But she had nowhere to go.

Potter was still incapacitated, and Weasley didn't even have time to raise his wand before the beast leapt past him and sprang directly for Hermione. Draco didn't think; he reacted. No one else was near enough to do anything, and he knew, from the reading Snape had forced them to do about werewolves, that a single stunning spell would hardly phase the monster while it was under the direct light of a full moon.

So he did the only thing that he could. He sprang to the side, tackled Hermione, and shoved her as far away from the werewolf as he could.

For one elated second, Draco thought they had both escaped, that the monster had jumped over them and that Potter, Weasley and Ivan would have a chance to stun it before it could do any damage. Then he was caught around the mid-section in mid-fall and shaken roughly in the air; an excruciating pain exploded in his left side, ripping the air from his lungs and tearing a scream from his throat. His bones rattled with the force of the shaking. He felt like a rag doll – a rag doll whose insides were being torn out by long, incredibly sharp teeth.

_So this is it, this is how it ends…_

Pain narrowed his vision to a tiny pinpoint of light. Voices shouting spells rang out all around him, but he could know longer understand the words; the world exploded in bursts of pain, and his sight failed completely.

Draco would never know that Ron Weasley saved his life, that he broke the most sacred wizard laws by shouting the Killing Curse at the werewolf, which flung Draco to the side before collapsing in a lifeless heap.

Draco's last thought before the darkness closed in was that he had picked a beautiful night to die.

With rivulets of pain still shooting through his limbs from Draco's curse, Harry stumbled to his feet and wobbled over to the tangle of limbs a few feet away.

"Hermione," he cried hoarsely, tugging on her arm to pull her out from underneath Malfoy, who had been tossed on top of her in the werewolf's final moments. "Hermione, are you hurt?"

She was shaking from head to toe, her teeth chattering, her face totally white, her clothes and hair smeared with blood, but she managed to whimper, "No…But Draco…"

"I know." He handed her off to Ron, terrified of finding out how badly Malfoy was hurt.

Harry nearly gagged when he rolled Malfoy over. The werewolf's powerful jaws had turned Malfoy's left side into a mass of blood and gore, tearing away chunks of flush and exposing ivory-colored rib bone. His breath rattled strangely in his throat; his eyes were half-close, unseeing; with every beat of his heart, blood gushed from the horrid wound, forming a sticky pool on the frozen ground.

Harry didn't think; he reacted. The pain and weakness in his own limbs was forgotten as he scooped Malfoy into his arms, cradling the other boy's head against his shoulder to protect his neck. Without a word to the others, he turned and ran harder than he had ever run in his life toward the castle.

Harry was vaguely aware of footsteps echoing behind him. If he would have turned, he would have seen Nuxoll bringing up the rear, his wand sweeping around them as he watched for more werewolves, and Ron half-carrying Hermione, who was starting to sob dryly. But Harry didn't turn. He had one purpose: Getting Malfoy to Dumbledore.

His wand, though Harry didn't realize it at the time, still lay beside the split oak, where he had dropped it when Malfoy's curse hit him full-force. He didn't think about wands, didn't really think at all, as he reached the enormous oak doors of Hogwarts – he just shouted the spell to open them, and the doors instantly obeyed.

"Go get – " he started to command Ron, then stopped.

Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape were already in the entranceway, all obviously roused from sleep, led by a white-faced Ginny Weasley. Dumbledore's eyes locked with Harry's for one second before sliding down to the bloody, mangled form in his arms; Harry couldn't have felt smaller in that moment if Dumbledore had outright accused him of murder.

"Hospital wing," was all Dumbledore said, tersely.

Harry's feet fairly flew over the marble staircases. Madam Pomfrey appeared from seemingly nowhere the moment he burst into the clinic; he wondered vaguely if she ever slept, or if she stayed up all night awaiting some emergency.

She barely arched an eyebrow at the bloody crew. "Here," she instructed Harry, brusque but perfectly calm. "Put him down here." She gestured at the nearest cot, where Harry lay Malfoy down as gently as he could and stepped back to give her room to work.

"What was it, Mr. Potter? What bit him?"

Harry's throat was so dry he could barely rasp out, "Werewolf."

A collective gasp arose from Snape and McGonagall. Madam Pomfrey offered no reaction. Dumbledore stepped up beside Harry. Surveying Malfoy gravely, he asked, "What do you need, Poppy?"

"Staunching salve, third shelf of that blue cabinet," she replied in clipped tones. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ron rush to the shelf and hurry back with the salve. Madam Pomfrey used a pair of scissors to cut away Malfoy's robe. After studying the wound briefly, she announced, "He needs a Healer. I'd say Simon Fairmont, from St. Mungo's. He's the best."

"Can we take him to St. Mungo's?" Dumbledore inquired.

"No. He can't be moved."

"Severus," Dumbledore turned to Snape, who was looking even paler than usual. "Can you…?"

"I'll have him here in an hour," Snape promised. With one murderous look at Harry, the Potions professor swept from the room.

Hermione, still bloody and trembling all over, stepped around Harry and took the salve from Madam Pomfrey. "Let me help," she whispered.

Madam Pomfrey took in her blood-matted hair and stained clothes. "Are you hurt, Miss Granger?"

"No." Hermione's voice was terribly small. "It's his." She touched Malfoy's forehead tenderly.

After a moment's hesitation, Madam Pomfrey nodded. "All right. Smooth that salve all over the open wounds. I've got a potion over here – should repair the bone and the internal organs – watch his respirations, I'm afraid a lung's been punctured."

While Madam Pomfrey and Hermione worked on Malfoy, Dumbledore ushered McGonagall, Nuxoll, Ron and Harry to a corner of the hospital wing. "Should I notify his mother?" McGonagall asked the Headmaster, glancing fretfully over at Malfoy. "I think Lucius is still at Azkaban, awaiting release."

"Not yet. We should wait until we know more," Dumbledore replied.

He turned to the three boys, all of whom stared guiltily at their feet. Harry had begun to wish he could disappear rather than face explaining to the Headmaster how such a tragedy occurred.

"I have many questions," Dumbledore told them quietly, "but they will have to wait until morning. If none of you are hurt, I suggest you return directly to your dormitories, and _say nothing _about this to anyone."

They all three nodded obediently. Harry wanted to stay, to be there when the Healer arrived, yet he knew he had no right to ask for special treatment, so he moved silently with the others to the door.

There, he paused and glanced back at Dumbledore. "Is he going to die?" he managed to ask.

"I don't know, Harry," Dumbledore answered honestly, his blue eyes sad. "Go to sleep now. I'll call for you in the morning."

And with that, Harry had no choice but to leave, to spend an interminable night alone with his questions, his fear, and his guilt.


	8. Guardian Angel

**_Author's Note: _**_I've made a slight alteration to this chapter based on a review, and while I loathe long author's notes, I think this requires a wee bit of explaining._

_One reviewer mentioned the scene (I think in Book 5) in which Lupin talks to a man at St. Mungo's who was bitten by a werewolf. As this reviewer pointed out, that man was not in a locked ward, as Healer __Fairmont__ says Draco would be in this chapter._

_I try very hard to stay true to JK's universe, but honestly, given the suspicion werewolves are treated with in her books, I found that scene in St. Mungo's a little odd when I read it. The premise I'm working from is that until Draco is proven "tame" by potions, at St. Mungo's he would be treated like the most out-of-control psychiatric patient would be in the Muggle world – placed on a locked ward, quite likely restrained, and heavily sedated. I realize this is a departure in some ways from JK's scene, but I still think my story is true to the fear of and prejudice against anyone who is different that pervades so much of JK's wizard world. I have made a few additions to the __Fairmont__ scene in Chapter 8 to clarify this._

_Thanks again for reviewing, and for providing such constructive criticism. You guys keep me honest! _

**Chapter Eight**

When Healer Simon Fairmont arrived from St. Mungo's, Hermione finally went to wash off Draco's blood. She simply couldn't face the curious stares of her classmates in Gryffindor Tower; although it was nearing four o'clock in the morning, she knew they would all still be awake, sitting in the common room and sharing shocked expressions over this horrible turn of events. Madam Pomfrey understood, and directed Hermione to a shower just off of her own chamber.

Standing under the hot spray, Hermione finally allowed the magnitude of what had happened to sink in. She sobbed shamelessly as she watched blood – Draco's blood – drip from her hair and pool around the drain at her feet.

_He saved my life, Draco Malfoy saved my life. And now he may lose his…_

She dawdled in the shower. Part of her was desperate to return to her patient; over the last couple of hours, she had so impressed Madam Pomfrey with her knowledge of the healing arts that they were working together like old pros by the time Healer Fairmont arrived. Yet the other part of her was terrified of what the Healer might say, so she took her time changing into an old pair of powder-blue "scrubs" – the pajama-like uniforms many Muggle surgeons wore, which happened to be the only thing Madam Pomfrey had that was small enough to fit Hermione – and twisting her damp hair back into a loose bun.

All the while, she avoided meeting her own gaze in the mirror. The guilt was overwhelming: _I should have gone straight to Dumbledore the second Harry mentioned this. I should have at least alerted McGonagall. I shouldn't have given up on Draco until he agreed not to go through with it – I shouldn't have stopped badgering Harry until he said he wouldn't fight him – _

_Stop it, _her inner voice ordered sternly. _You'll drive yourself crazy thinking that way. It's over. It's happened._

_Get on with it._

Sighing, Hermione closed her eyes and leaned her palms on the sink. Over the last six years, she had survived horrors she'd never thought possible the day her Hogwarts letter arrived. Somehow, someway, she would survive this, too, and she would see to it that Draco did as well.

Her resolve determined, she straightened her spine, looked her reflection directly in the eye, nodded decisively at herself, and marched back into the clinic.

Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Madam Pomfrey were all gathered around Draco's bed, where a tall, dark-haired man with round wire-framed glasses was holding court. Hermione was surprised again, as she had been when Snape rushed in with him, at how young Simon Fairmont was. If she hadn't trusted Madam Pomfrey's opinion so much, she would have been anxious to find a more experienced healer.

"…out of danger for the moment," Healer Fairmont was saying as Hermione quietly joined the group. He seemed to be addressing mostly Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore, which made Hermione like him at once – at least he knew who the professionals were. "But, as you know, Madam Pomfrey, he's still got a long road ahead."

"Would you advise moving him to St. Mungo's?" Dumbledore asked.

Fairmont shook his head. "Not at the moment, no. I've stopped the bleeding, but werewolf bites are tricky things. The wound could reopen at the slightest jostling."

The healer paused, glancing down at Draco's pale face before meeting Dumbledore's gaze head-on. "In fact, Headmaster, I wouldn't recommend moving someone with this type of injury to St. Mungo's even when he has stabilized."

Snape arched an eyebrow. "Surely, Healer Fairmont, the boy could receive better care in a hospital than in a school clinic?" He darted a quick glance at Madam Pomfrey, who was regarding him coldly, and hastened to add, "Not that Madam Pomfrey isn't more than capable of handling such an injury, of course..."

Fairmont bit his lip. He seemed to be searching for a tactful way to say what needed to be said. "St. Mungo's has some marvelous healers, I'll be the first to admit that. But not even the best healers are immune to the…prejudices of the outside world." The healer stared down sadly at his patient, as if imagining what lay ahead of Draco. "The Lykos Potion – that's the potion that prevents people from turning into werewolves at the full moon – is poisonous to anyone who has not undergone their first full moon transformation. Which means, obviously, that this young man can't be given the potion during the next month. He _must _transform into a werewolf at the next full moon. We have no way of stopping it without killing him."

Hermione shivered. The whole situation seemed so hopeless. Up until that moment, she had been harboring what she suddenly realized was a naïve belief that once Healer Fairmont arrived, Draco would be fine; now, she realized how desperate Draco's plight was, and that she, Fairmont, Madam Pomfrey, and even Dumbledore were powerless to help him.

Fairmont continued, "Patients who aren't being treated with the Lykos Potion are kept in a special ward at St. Mungo's. A locked-down ward." He paused to let those surprisingly sinister words sink in for his audience. "Patients on those wards are allowed no visitors. They're often kept restrained, tied down to a bed. And during their first transformation…"

He let the sentence trail off, unfinished, but everyone took his meaning. Cold rage gripped Hermione; clenching her fists at her sides, she silently vowed that if Dumbledore decided to ship Draco off to some dark cell where he would be chained to a bed, she would go straight to St. Mungo's and break him out, no matter what the consequences.

"So, you see, Professor, I feel the boy would receive much better care here, with Madam Pomfrey and her assistant." Fairmont gestured toward Hermione, who flushed as she realized that she must look a little like a healer-in-training in her blue scrubs.

Before she could correct Fairmont's mistaken assumption, however, Flitwick squeaked, "Forgive my ignorance, Healer Fairmont, but what can we expect over the next month?" He chuckled sheepishly. "I'm afraid it's been a long while since I needed to brush up on my werewolf lore."

Hermione immediately wondered if he was referring to when Remus Lupin had gone to Hogwarts. Had the staff known Dumbledore was allowing a werewolf to attend the school? She couldn't imagine dear little Professor Flitwick being prejudiced against _anyone_, so she assumed he had made a good ally for Lupin – and likely would for Draco as well.

"It won't be pretty," Fairmont replied gravely. Hermione's fatigue-numbed limbs began to tingle with fear. "As you know, lycanthrope is an 'evolving curse' – it works like a poison in the system, one for which there is, unfortunately, no antidote. Until the next full moon, he'll be in the greatest danger of dying. You can expect raging, uncontrollable fevers, delirium, blistering and infection at the wound site, continuous oozing and bleeding from the bite itself. The fevers may cause seizures.

"Luckily for Mr. Malfoy, Madam Pomfrey is an expert at repairing internal injuries, so the boy's vital organs, especially that punctured lung, are already healing and should stay that way, barring further injury," Fairmont went on, seemingly oblivious to the increasingly-drawn faces all around him. Hermione, overcome by the terror of what lay ahead, sagged into McGonagall, who wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. "And Professor Snape's reputation as a potions master proceeds him. I'm confident you'll be able to control the worst of the curse once…once the change occurs."

Hermione stood up a little straighter. All of the reading Snape had assigned on werewolves during their third year was flooding back to her: At the next full moon, the curse would be complete, which meant that even if Draco survived the poisonous effects of the bite itself…

_He'll transform into a werewolf. _

_And then, for the rest of his life, he'll change again at every full moon._

She felt ridiculously stupid for not realizing just how earth-shattering tonight's events were. Draco wasn't only in danger of dying; he was condemned to life as part-man, part-wolf if he survived.

Images of Lupin, pale and weak and sickly, shot through her mind. Lupin, who was an outcast nearly everywhere he went. Lupin, who, despite being an incredibly talented wizard, couldn't find employment anywhere in their world because of his curse. Lupin, who had never married, never raised a family, all because he was considered a monster by the majority of the wizard world.

Hermione's eyes filled with tears. She turned back into McGonagall's shoulder, welcoming the surprisingly maternal comfort her professor was willing to offer. "Hush, now," McGonagall soothed her, patting her back. "You've been through an ordeal tonight, Miss Granger. Once Healer Fairmont leaves, I think we need to have Poppy give you a sleeping draught so you can rest."

Too exhausted to argue for the moment, Hermione leaned quietly against McGonagall while Fairmont rattled off a few instructions to Madam Pomfrey and Snape. He promised to return once a week to check on Draco and to be present for the change; after shaking hands with Dumbledore, the healer hastily left with Flitwick and Snape.

When they had gone, Dumbledore turned to Hermione, who reluctantly left the safety of McGonagall's shoulder and stared mutely at the Headmaster. She tried to steel herself for the onslaught of questions she expected him to unleash – how long she'd known about the duel, who initiated it, why she didn't come forward – but Dumbledore didn't seem in the mood for an interrogation. In fact, he didn't even appear angry, as Hermione had anticipated; instead, he just looked sad – sad and weary.

"Miss Granger," he began softly, "I expect that we have you to thank for only one person being hurt tonight."

Hermione blushed to the roots of her hair. Had Dumbledore known about the duel and done nothing to stop it? Was that what he was intimating? Or did he merely assume that she would never have been involved in something so cruel and barbaric, that her involvement could only mean that she had been trying to protect her friends?

When she volunteered no response, Dumbledore went on, "I plan to speak with Harry and the other boys first thing this morning, and then I'll have to address the school. I'm certain rumors of Mr. Malfoy's fate are already flying. Best to settle those quickly."

The Headmaster reached out to place a soothing hand on Hermione's trembling arm. "I want you to know that I believe everyone here has been punished enough tonight. You needn't worry about the fate of Harry and Ron – I have no intention of expelling them or of allowing the Ministry to become involved in this…unfortunate incident."

Relief washed over Hermione: Harry and Ron could stay at school, and they wouldn't risk having their wands snapped in half or being shipped off to Azkaban! Given the situation, it was more than she could have hoped for. In a rush of gratitude, she blurted, "Thank you, Headmaster, that's – I'm so glad, I mean, what they did was wrong, but…"

She trailed off helplessly, unable to explain, yet Dumbledore nodded in understanding. "You're quite welcome, Miss Granger. Now, why don't you say good-night to Mr. Malfoy and get off to bed? You must be exhausted – "

"I want to stay."

Hermione surprised herself with her forthrightness, but the moment the words left her mouth, she knew her mind was made up: She was not leaving Draco's side, not for one single second of this ordeal. She lifted her chin and faced Dumbledore bravely. "I can help Madam Pomfrey take care of him. Other students are still going to get sick and hurt, and Draco is going to require a lot of attention. I know what I'm doing. What I don't know, she can teach me. I'm a quick study."

McGonagall pursed her lips, obviously skeptical. "Miss Granger, you're taking some very difficult classes this term. I would hate to see your future knocked off-track, even for such a good cause."

"I can do my homework here, while he's sleeping," Hermione insisted stubbornly. She tried to convey to Dumbledore with her eyes how desperate she was for this request to be granted; she _needed _to see Draco through this. "Harry or Ron can bring me my lessons. I swear I won't get behind. Please, Headmaster."

Dumbledore glanced at Madam Pomfrey, who had stopped while fluffing Draco's pillow and was watching them all silently. "What do you think, Poppy?"

Madam Pomfrey considered Hermione for a moment. After a seemingly interminable pause, she declared crisply, "Hermione is the most singularly talented witch to ever come through this school, that's what I think. I could use her help, Albus. And I think the boy may need her here."

That decided it; despite McGonagall's disapproving glare, Dumbledore nodded his consent.

From that moment forward, Hermione Granger became Draco Malfoy's guardian angel.


	9. Comfort

**_Author's Note: _**Be sure to check out my revisions to Chapter 8 – small but important!

**Chapter Nine**

When the sun crept over the horizon, Harry finally gave up on the possibility of sleep. He suspected that Ron was also still awake, but his friend didn't stir as Harry slipped by; that was fine with Harry, who wasn't ready to discuss the events of a few hours ago yet anyway.

The rest of Gryffindor House was still tucked away in bed at dawn on a Sunday morning. Harry sank into a chair in front of the cold fireplace, trying not to remember how he and Hermione had sat together in this same spot just a couple of days earlier – the night they had kissed.

_The way she looked at me in the hospital wing…Will she ever forgive me?_

Harry's eyes were so tired they felt as if sand had been rubbed under the lids. He allowed his eyelids to drift shut and wished for sleep, but his mind refused to stop replaying the duel. Guilt settled heavily on his shoulders: Guilt for putting others needlessly in danger; guilt for forcing Ron into a situation where he had no choice but to invoke the Killing Curse; guilt for sinking to Draco Malfoy's level to prove some misguided point about his own fearlessness; guilt for not being the one in the hospital wing fighting for his life.

Harder to bear even than the guilt, though, was the fear: Would Malfoy survive? If he didn't, what would happen to everyone involved in the duel? Would Dumbledore send Ron before the Wizengamot for using the Killing Curse, and if he did, would they really sentence someone to a lifetime in Azkaban whose actions were meant only to save another's life? Could the lycanthrope curse be cured or reversed, or was Malfoy condemned to life as a werewolf?

Soft footsteps jolted Harry from his reverie. He watched in surprise as Ginny Weasley, clad in a maroon Gryffindor bathrobe and looking as tired as he felt, crossed to sit in the chair beside his.

"Hi," she said quietly.

"Hi," he said back.

A weighty silence descended upon them. Harry thought of how he must have looked to her when he had burst through the school's front doors with Malfoy's mangled body in his arms. No wonder she didn't know what to say to him; he must have looked like a monster. Like a murderer.

_Maybe I am…_

"Are you okay?"

Ginny's question startled him. Harry had expected anger or even revulsion from her, not concern. "Yeah," he answered automatically, but he knew he hardly sounded convincing as he half-choked on the word. He found he could hardly lift his eyes from the ashes in the hearth; he didn't want to see the accusations in those cat-green eyes, eyes which had once gazed at him adoringly.

Ginny reached out to lay her hand over his. Her soothing touch almost brought tears to his eyes. "Harry," she commanded softly, "look at me."

With an effort, Harry lifted his eyes to hers. The look she fixed him with was full of sympathy; to his relief, her eyes were empty of loathing.

"You don't look okay," she observed, drawing the smallest smile from him. "Do you want to sneak down to the kitchens and have Dobby fix us an early breakfast?"

Dobby. Thinking of the house elf, who had once belonged to the Malfoys, generated another twinge of guilt in Harry's gut: How would he explain his actions to Dobby, who believed in the supreme goodness of The Boy Who Lived? Could he stand to see that adoration morph into contempt?

"I'm not hungry, Ginny, but thanks," Harry answered sullenly. He let his gaze drift back to the fireplace.

She sighed. "First Sirius, now this. You have to take care of yourself, you know. With all this tragedy, I'm afraid you're going to waste away to nothing."

Her casual tone sparked a sudden fury in Harry. "That's a bloody awful thing to say," he snapped, jerking his hand out of hers. "My godfather dies, Draco Malfoy's probably going to die, I nearly got Hermione killed, your brother could go to Azkaban, and you talk about it like-like-like it's nothing!"

The knowing glint in Ginny's eyes cut Harry's tirade short. "Well," she commented dryly, "at least that got a reaction out of you. I didn't want to hurt you Harry, I just…I just hate it when you're so…"

She bit her lip, searching for words, while Harry glowered at her, too angry to really care what she was trying to say. "Sometimes, it's like you're not even here, and I don't know how to talk to you when you're like that, Harry." She paused. "Nobody does."

Harry flushed as he realized her ruse – make him angry, draw him out of his shell. He flung himself back in the chair, anger now smoldering at her manipulation. Ginny's tone became pleading. "Harry, seriously, you can't close off from everyone like this. It's not healthy. You still have friends, people who care about you. We want to help." She seized his hand again, refusing to let him pull away; her small fingers wound tightly around his. "I want to help."

Her earnestness doused the last embers of Harry's wrath. Rubbing at his sleep-sore eyes, he wondered how – or if – he could explain to her why he needed to deal with all of this on his own. It would be so much simpler if he could reveal the prophecy to her, if he could finally share with someone else the burden of his destiny: He would either kill or be killed by Voldemort. The literal weight of their world rested on his shoulders.

The temptation to break down and confess everything to Ginny, everything Dumbledore had told him at the end of the school year and everything Harry feared the future held for him and those he loved, was nearly overwhelming, especially when he knew that Ginny honestly cared about him. But that knowledge also forced him to hold his tongue: The last thing he wanted was to condemn someone as sweet as Ginny Weasley to helping carry the load of the prophecy. It was a heavy enough burden for Harry, who had no choice but to shoulder it.

"Ginny, I…" He found himself clutching her hand, as if she were a life-line in dark, stormy waters. "I know you want to help me. But you can't." He gripped her hand tighter when he saw the anguish reflected in her face. "No one can. This is something I have to face on my own."

"What, Harry? _What _do you have to face on your own?"

_My parents' murderer.__ The most evil wizard to ever live. Someone who could destroy all of us if I don't stop him._

Silence stretched between them like a wire. Harry stared into her eyes, wishing he could tell her everything, knowing he couldn't; Ginny stared back, searching for the truth, conveying without words a depth of feeling for him that stole Harry's breath.

_Not even Hermione looked at me like that when we kissed…Is she…Could Ginny be…_

_In love with me?_

On the heels of that terrifying thought came another: Could he fall in love with her as well?

Finally, Ginny slipped her hand out of his and stood, ending the connection that had suddenly sizzled between them – but not severing it.

"Okay, Harry, you keep your secrets. For now." She turned and headed back toward the girls' dormitory. Harry's eyes followed her the entire way, his emotions a torrent of confusion.

At the entrance to the staircase, she glanced back at him. "Just remember, I'm here, Harry. And I always will be."

Harry stared after her for a long time. His fatigued mind refused to let him consider all that had happened; as sunlight streamed into the common room, he finally slipped into a fitful doze, too exhausted to think anymore.

Sometime later, he was shaken rather roughly awake. "Wha…?" Harry murmured, bolting upright in the chair, uncertain where he was for a moment as the cobwebs of sleep clouded his mind.

Gradually, his eyes focused on a delighted-looking Filch standing over him. Ron hovered nervously off to the side; he carefully kept his eyes averted from Harry's, refusing to meet his best friend's gaze. Harry's heart rate trebled as he realized that their moment of truth had arrived.

"Wake up, Mr. Potter," Filch cooed, his voice slick with ill-contained glee. "The Headmaster wants to see you and Mr. Weasley in his office. Right now."

It was time to face Dumbledore.


	10. Healing

**Chapter Ten**

Draco floated in and out of a pain-fogged haze, never quite able to break the surface of consciousness. Mostly, he was lost in tangled dreams, many of them bizarre and frightening; occasionally, though, he was dimly aware of someone gently bathing his skin, whispering words of comfort in his ear, pulling a blanket up under his chin.

And sometimes, he would imagine that he heard Hermione Granger's voice. She was usually reading to him, from time to time telling him about the gossip flying around the Hogwarts halls, now and again commenting on the weather; what she said hardly mattered, since he couldn't remember from one second to the next what she had been saying. But her voice itself was enough to calm him. As her words rolled over him, his troubled dreams would smooth out into ribbons of green and gold, submerging him in a pleasant oblivion where her voice was the only thing that was real and his pain was a distant memory.

He could not for the life of him understand where he was, how he had gotten there, or why no one woke him up. Sometimes, on the verge of wakefulness, he would panic. _Why can't I wake up? _his mind, imprisoned in his body, would shriek. _Am I dead? Am I dying? I need to wake up! Wake up!_

Then he would hear Hermione's voice again and feel the silky touch of her palm against his brow, and he would relax. She was taking care of him, she said; he didn't need to be afraid, she wouldn't leave him, not for an instant, she vowed. He could hear the honesty in her voice. He wanted to thank her, tried to reach up and squeeze her hand, but his limbs were made of lead and he was so, so very tired…

After three and a half weeks, Hermione had become a staple around the clinic. Madam Pomfrey – who, during their third sleepless night of nursing Draco through a raging fever, had asked Hermione to call her Poppy – soon entrusted her young assistant with the full-time care of Draco. Hermione was relieved of her charge just a few hours each day to sleep in the cot next to his. She suspected Poppy would have given her more time off if Draco hadn't needed her so badly; each time he began to thrash and moan, only Hermione's soothing words could calm him. And it was imperative that he be kept as still as possible so he didn't tear his wound open again.

Draco endured every complication Healer Fairmont had predicted: His fever soared, most often at night, and he never fully regained consciousness, although sometimes at the height of his fever he would yell strange words, nonsense words, that Poppy said were just part of the delirium. Once, about two weeks into the ordeal, he howled, a sound so foreign and frightening that Hermione's hair stood on end. Thankfully, that didn't happen again.

Perhaps most frightening for Hermione were the seizures Draco suffered during the worst of his fevers. Standing by helplessly, she and Poppy could do nothing but watch him flail uncontrollably on the bed until the convulsions stopped, leaving his breathing shallow and ragged. The deep wound in his side constantly oozed blood; the pale skin around it blistered into great, pus-filled boils that Hermione learned to treat with a healing salve and to wash gently so as not to tear his tender skin.

In fact, Hermione was learning a great deal about healing – like how to change Draco's sweat-soaked pajamas and sheets without jarring his wound, and how to dribble water from a sponge between his lips to keep him hydrated without choking him in his semi-conscious state. Snape even explained to her how the Lykos Potion he was making would work to off-set the worst effects of the curse; while they couldn't prevent the first change from happening, they would be able to prevent subsequent changes, he assured her.

Healer Fairmont seemed pleased with their patient's progress on his weekly visits, but Hermione was terribly concerned by Draco's appearance: He rapidly lost weight, his fair skin became virtually colorless, and his eyes sunk deep into purple-rimmed sockets. He was still handsome but frail – horribly frail, like a white rose trembling on a frost-dipped stem. When Poppy retired shortly before each dawn, after Draco's fever had once more dropped and his breathing had again evened out, Hermione would press his slender fingers gently to her lips, close her eyes and will her own strength into him; if necessary, she had already decided she would keep him alive by sheer force of will.

Their days, awful as they were, became routine: Bath and clean clothes and sheets at dawn, to wash away the night's fever-sweat; wound dressing shortly thereafter; healing potion for his punctured lung at mid-morning; reading (usually of Hermione's homework – she read aloud to him because Poppy believed he could hear her) until early afternoon; wound dressing; more reading. Not long after the moon rose, so would Draco's fever, and she and Poppy would work non-stop to keep him comfortable until the steely gray of dawn crept across the sky. Only then would he and then Hermione and Poppy finally be able to drop off to sleep.

It was exhausting, wearying, unrewarding work, but Hermione never thought about quitting. And somewhere in those three and a half weeks, she let herself fall in love with Draco Malfoy.

Ginny brought Hermione's assignments each day and stayed for a few minutes to chat quietly. She reported that Harry, Ron and Draco's friend Ivan Nuxoll had each cost their houses 100 points, which, understandably, had not made them very popular; yet even though Ginny didn't say it, Hermione got the distinct impression that everyone outside of Slytherin House was quite proud of Harry for, as they saw it, "besting" Draco Malfoy. If those same people could have seen what Hermione witnessed everyday, she knew they would have changed their minds – no one deserved what Draco was suffering – but Dumbledore was adamant that no one besides Hermione and Poppy could see Draco. Even her conversations with Ginny took place on the other side of a white screen shielding Draco from prying eyes.

Ginny reluctantly filled Hermione in on the details of Harry and Ron's punishment. Both had been suspended from two Quidditch games; if McGonagall hadn't wanted to win the Cup so badly, Hermione suspected they would have been kicked off the team entirely. They also had to serve three weeks' worth of detentions with Filch, and while they didn't end up dangling from their thumbs in the dungeons, the tasks Filch came up with for them were distinctly unpleasant – like scrubbing mold and mildew off the dungeon floors without magic.

Ron, Ginny said, had also suffered the additional blow of being stripped of his Prefect's badge – a decision McGonagall had made and Dumbledore had not contradicted. Hermione found this a bit extreme, but to her surprise, Ginny had little sympathy for her brother – "He knew the risks when he agreed to be Harry's second," she said with a shrug. "Like Mum's always telling him, actions have consequences."

She felt differently about Harry, however. "I'm worried about him," Ginny remarked more than once, showing far more concern for him than for Ron. "He's really withdrawn, doesn't hardly speak to anyone. He isn't eating much. Last week he skived off Transfiguration twice, and McGonagall threatened to give him more detention if he didn't start coming to class."

Hermione didn't know what to say. She was worried about Harry, too – just not as worried as she was about Draco. And she couldn't help feeling rather put-out that neither of her supposed best friends had come to see her or tried to contact her in any way since the night of the duel; she assumed they were angry with her for sticking by Draco, but she didn't mention her hurt feelings to Ginny, who volunteered nothing on the subject.

Honestly, after a couple of weeks Hermione was too weary to care what Ron, Harry, or anyone else thought about her living in the hospital wing and acting as Draco's full-time nurse. She had a job to do, and to her, that was all that mattered.

Finally, on the day of the next full moon, Harry did make an appearance, and despite her wounded feelings, Hermione had to admit she was relieved to see him. The tension had been building inside of her for days as the dreaded night of Draco's first transformation approached; the previous evening, his fever had spiked and then broken, leaving him eerily still ever since – no moaning, no thrashing, no moving of any kind. Hermione was bone-tired and terrified.

So when Harry, escorted by a thin-lipped Madam Pomfrey, stepped quietly around the screen separating Draco's bed from the rest of the hospital ward, Hermione did the only thing that felt natural: She walked into his out-stretched arms and sobbed for a full five minutes.

Once her sobs quieted to a severe case of the sniffles, they sat down together on the cot beside Draco's bed. Harry wrapped a strong arm securely around her shoulders and held her close against his side, as if he could shield her from the pain that surrounded them.

"Tell me," he said simply, and the whole awfulness of the last three and a half weeks came pouring out of her.

Poppy brought tea but otherwise left them alone. When Hermione finished her story, Harry turned her face up to his and looked her squarely in the eye. With a tiny shiver, she remembered the night they had kissed – had it really only been a month ago?

_It seems like a lifetime has passed since then…And now I'm in love with someone else, utterly and completely in love…_

"I'm sorry, Hermione."

And Hermione forgave him. Just like that, weeks of anger and resentment she hadn't even realized she was holding inside melted away, and she relaxed into Harry's side, secure in his embrace. "It's okay," she told him, and it was. "You didn't know this was going to happen. Nobody did."

He said nothing. She suspected Harry would not forgive himself so easily, but that was a battle for him to fight, not her.

After a short silence, he asked, "What happens now? I mean, after tonight?"

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, fear making her limbs feel weak. "No one's said, actually. I think we're all afraid to think that far ahead, in case…" She couldn't say, _In case he dies, _couldn't force the words past her throat, but Harry took her meaning. "I think Dumbledore will keep him here. He hasn't even told the Malfoys yet, you know. Poppy said he didn't even tell the Board of Governors."

"Lucius Malfoy is still in Azkaban. The Death Eaters he testified against have almost all been convicted. The Daily Prophet says he'll be released sometime next week," Harry told her. Hermione was surprised to find that she hadn't even thought about the events in the wider wizard world for almost a month. "I can't imagine Lucius'll take this very well, the way he feels about 'half-breeds' and all that. Do you think he'll take Draco out of school?"

_Not if I have anything to say about it, _Hermione thought grimly, silently vowing to fight Lucius Malfoy to the death if he tried to lock Draco away in the Malfoy mansion. Aloud, she said, "I think he'll have to get through Dumbledore first."

"Do you want me to be here tonight?"

Hermione considered it, touched that Harry had offered. She was just beginning to realize how difficult this situation was for him. "No," she finally decided. She wanted to say, _I don't think Draco would want that, _but feared Harry would take it the wrong way. "I'm going to need your help more later. I have a feeling no one in this school will be Draco's friend now, except for you and me."

Harry sighed. "Well, there's a concept," he observed dryly. "Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, mates."

Hermione nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. "Stranger things have happened," she said, and they grinned at one another.

It would be the last time she smiled for a long, long while.


	11. Deep Thoughts

**Chapter Eleven**

Back in the Gryffindor common room, Harry sat alone in front of the fireplace. It was a quiet, rainy evening; most of his classmates were either already upstairs in bed or buried in their own homework. He had a Potions essay he should have been writing, but tonight, knowing what was happening in the hospital wing, he simply couldn't concentrate.

He'd seen it on Hermione's face today: This would be bad. Worse than bad. Draco Malfoy, if he survived his first full moon, would be a condemned man.

_How could I have been so stupid? _For the millionth time, Harry closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to the lids, trying to blot out the memory of Draco's body, clamped in the werewolf's powerful jaws, whipping back and forth through the air.

It seemed impossible to Harry that a few short weeks ago he'd been so convinced the duel was the right thing to do – no, the _only_ thing to do. He had assumed, correctly, that everyone at Hogwarts was watching him, waiting for him to set the tone of the war against Voldemort.

_And set the tone I did. I showed everybody how to be just as ruthless and inhuman as the so-called Dark Lord himself._

Heart-wrenching as it had been, though, Harry was glad he had gone today to visit Hermione. Ginny had finally prompted him to go, relaying to both Harry and Ron that Hermione could use some moral support; truthfully, Harry had been wanting to go see her for weeks, but he'd been too afraid – afraid of the accusations in her eyes, afraid of the loathing in her voice.

_But she forgave me. Just like that, she forgave me._

Earning Hermione's forgiveness had lifted an enormous weight off of Harry's shoulders even as another burden of grief had descended upon his heart: Hermione was in love with Malfoy. He hadn't needed her to say it; the truth had been written all over her face.

Harry couldn't pin down the exact moment when his feelings for Hermione had deepened from friendship and respect into something more…intimate. Her phone calls this past summer had been a rare bright spot in his lonely, grief-clouded world, yet he hadn't realized even then how much he looked forward to hearing her voice. Perhaps this term at the train station was when he'd first noticed the strange tingle she stirred deep-down in his stomach; her new curves and bouncy hair-do might have had something to do with that, he supposed.

In any case, whenever it had happened, it _had _happened – Harry had become smitten with Hermione, and over the last few months, he'd sensed that the feeling was reciprocated. Hadn't she proven that by kissing him the night before his duel with Malfoy?

Leaning forward, Harry rested his face in his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. That kiss had held all the promise of a wonderful future – of a life together. He'd gone to sleep that night wondering if this was how his father had felt after his first kiss with Lilly Evans; had James known, as Harry had, that he was the luckiest man alive because he had won the heart of the most precious woman alive? Harry had floated on air the next day, even with the duel looming before him.

Sure, she'd had her reservations about them as a couple, and she'd been perfectly honest about her feelings for Malfoy. But Harry was confident nothing would ever have come of that bad-boy crush if Malfoy weren't now lying suspended between life and death in the hospital wing, because Hermione would never have allied herself with someone who refused to disavow Voldemort, with someone who so openly embraced an ideology she, like Harry, found repulsive. With time, he had felt then and still believed now, Malfoy would have faded from Hermione's thoughts while Harry grew in her heart.

_And I put an end to all of that. I put these wheels in motion, made it possible for her to fall in love with Malfoy – I lost her, all by myself._

Still, Harry decided as he fell resignedly back in his chair, painful as it was, he'd needed to see for himself what he'd glimpsed in Ginny's guarded expressions: Hermione was in love with Malfoy. So he'd gone to the hospital wing, he'd asked for her forgiveness – the only thing he could expect from her now – and when the worst had been confirmed by her eyes alone, he'd actually been relived. At least he knew where he stood with her now, and they could move on, as friends.

Today, Harry had also made another important discovery: He would rather have Hermione as a friend than lose her entirely. And so he had made a decision to stand by her, and thereby to stand by Malfoy, no matter what. He would be the friend Hermione deserved, trusting that in time his other feelings for her would dull into nothing more than memories.

Unfortunately, Ron, who had been terribly temperamental since being stripped of his Prefect's badge, didn't seem to share Harry's inclination for remaining supportive of Hermione. When Ginny had asked them to go visit her, Ron had told her that Draco Malfoy could shove off, and Hermione right along with him. Harry suspected Ron would have been more sympathetic to Malfoy's predicament if Hermione wasn't holed up in the hospital wing caring for him, though of course he'd had the sense not to say that with Ron's temper so on edge.

The truth was, Harry and Ron weren't getting on so well these days. They'd shown solidarity in front of Dumbledore, who thoroughly chastised them and threatened expulsion if they engaged in any more rule-breaking, and in front of their classmates. They hadn't outright argued about the duel, about Hermione's care of Malfoy, or anything. But while Ron lapped up the praise of their schoolmates for finally giving Malfoy his due, as they put it, Harry visibly shrank from the attention, which seemed to enrage Ron. The strain between them had significantly worsened when, less than a week after the duel, Mr. Weasley had shown up at the castle to speak with Ron privately; although Ron never discussed what was said, Harry knew it must have been bad, because when Ron emerged from Dumbledore's office he looked as if he'd been crying.

Mr. Weasley hadn't asked to speak with Harry. On the one hand, Harry was relieved to escape the tongue-lashing, while on the other he was wounded that the Weasleys weren't treating him like a son as usual and giving him the same punishment they'd given Ron. Not that he could really blame them; he had put Ron and Hermione in grave danger, and nothing but sheer dumb luck had kept them all from suffering a fate similar to Malfoy's – or something worse.

All in all, nothing had been the same between Harry and Ron since the night of the duel. Their conversations were tense and awkward; they shuffled around the subject of Malfoy and Hermione until the weight of all they didn't say crept in between them like an immovable boulder, pushing them further and further apart. Harry had begun to feel adrift again, like he had the night Sirius died, as he realized how truly alone he was without either of his best friends.

The minutes ticked on toward midnight while Harry sorted painfully through the chaos of his life. Students drifted up to the dormitories in small groups until Harry was finally all alone in the common room. He stared into the fireplace, wishing, as he often did, that he could expect Sirius's head to pop up amidst the flames. What he wouldn't give for his godfather's advice right now!

_Or maybe I should be glad he's not here to see what a mess I've made of things. Sirius was hot-headed, but he wouldn't have been as stupid as I've been – he would never have lowered himself to Malfoy's level, or have thought it was the right thing to do…_

Or would he? Harry knew Sirius had performed some ill-advised stunts during his Hogwarts years, like teaching himself to become an unregistered Animangus so he could keep Lupin company during the full moons – a serious crime and a perilous spell for an untrained wizard. Not to mention the danger Sirius had willingly placed himself, his friends, and the whole of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade in by encouraging Lupin not to remain locked away in the Shrieking Shack during his transformations!

_And my dad went along with all of that. Maybe I'm not so different from him and Sirius after all…_

A sudden idea occurred to Harry, and even though he shoved it immediately out of his mind, he suspected it would nest in the corner of his consciousness, nibbling away at his better judgment day by day. After all, Hermione was right: Malfoy would have no friends at Hogwarts from now on, aside from the two of them. And hadn't he, Harry, faced down Voldemort and a veritable army of Death Eaters? Surely he was prepared to work a spell that Sirius and his father had managed without the benefits of his experience –

"Up to no good?"

Harry jumped guiltily as Ginny sank down into the chair across from his. He hoped she would chalk his red cheeks up to the firelight.

"Couldn't sleep," he responded, trying to sound innocent.

Ginny nodded. He tried not to notice how pretty she looked with the flames reflecting in her eyes and her brick-red hair tumbling around her shoulders. What was happening to all of them, anyway? Hermione was certainly rounding out in all the right places, he still couldn't help noticing, and now, he was starting to miss when Ginny was just Ron's little sister, not a beautiful girl in her own right.

"Do you think, if something…bad happens tonight, Dumbledore will announce it to the whole school?"

Harry stared into the fire, considering Ginny's question. He tried not to dwell on the possibility that Malfoy might very soon be dead; nevertheless, he could picture the stark silence in the Great Hall following Dumbledore's solemn announcement, could hear the accusatory whispers as even those who were at this moment his supporters began to call him a murderer.

_Then I'd really know how Sirius felt. Only, I'd have earned the title._

"Probably," he answered.

The gravity of what might be happening in the hospital wing settled in around them. Without a word, Ginny rose, crossed to him, and sank down on Harry's lap with her head resting on his shoulder; pleasantly surprised, he, in turn, wrapped his arms around her waist and laid his cheek against her silky, sweet-smelling hair.

"Let's just stay right here," Ginny suggested quietly, nuzzling her nose into his neck. "Let's just stay like this, okay, Harry? At least until morning."

Unable to think of a more comforting way to pass the awful night ahead, Harry nodded. By dawn, though they had spoken hardly a word to each other, he was thankful for Ginny's company; she kept his demons at bay simply by being there.


	12. Awakening

**Chapter Twelve**

The first sensation Draco became aware of was hunger. A ravaging, gut-gnawing hunger.

Quite unexpectedly, his eyelids – which had seemed bolted shut moments earlier – popped open. He blinked at the ceiling for a few moments, waiting for the world to come back into focus, and realized with a jolt that his eyesight seemed to have changed dramatically since…Well, since whenever his eyes had last been open, which felt like a very, very long time.

_Everything looks…brighter. Like it's been white-washed. _

_What the hell…?_

He rolled his eyes to the side, searching for the source of the strangely bright light. He saw only a row of cots to his right; dimly, he recognized that he was in the hospital wing of Hogwarts, yet those words and their associations meant little to him. It was as if he were standing on the wrong side of a mirror looking out at a world he knew and yet did not know – a world that had lost its color, its form, its texture.

A hunger pang shot through his belly, bringing him upright in bed. He gasped at the stiffness in his limbs: How long had he been sleeping here, anyway?

_Too long.__ Must move. _

_Must eat._

Draco stretched, reveling in the simple freedom of moving his cramped limbs, and marveled at the strength coursing through him. Almost unconsciously he understood that he had been lying still for days on end, that until this moment he had for weeks been plagued by a weakness that made even turning his head to the side an impossibility. But now, his body seemed to be vibrating with power. Had Madam Pomfrey discovered some ultimate healing potion?

_Healing potion…Why would I need a healing potion?_

_Eat. _

_Hunt._

_Eat._

Draco shook his head to clear it. Competing thoughts tore through his mind; on the one hand, he could recall his duel with Potter, could wonder if Madam Pomfrey had treated his injuries, yet on the other, those names and memories held no meaning for him.

A wave of panic overtook him. Was he suffering some kind of amnesia? Did he have brain damage from a head injury? And where was everybody? Surely if he had been badly hurt, Madam Pomfrey wouldn't have left him unattended…

Never one to sit idly by and languish in fear, Draco swung his legs over the edge of the bed and placed his bare feet firmly on the cold stone floor. As soon as he did so, a shockwave rolled through his body: He was staring at a world awash in brilliant blue-white light, a glare he distantly recalled was moonlight.

Then the pain hit.

He screamed as the agony poured through him, like a thousand knives piercing his body from every angle; ice coursed through his veins, atrophying his muscles and snapping his bones, only to be immediately replaced by liquid fire that burned violently enough to send him into convulsions. He was barely aware of crashing to the stone floor, of voices shouting nearby. The world disappeared into a haze of excruciating pain, so intense that Draco hoped death awaited him on the other side.

But it didn't. As swiftly as the pain had come, it vanished, leaving him trembling and gasping. Yet the memory of it faded quickly, like the memory of everything that had come before, of who he was or had been before that moment.

_Eat. Hunt._

The newborn werewolf pivoted slowly in the pool of moonlight, glorying in the sinewy gracefulness of its limbs. Power hummed deep within its lithe, silver-furred body, fed by the moonbeams surrounding it; it arched its long neck as it sniffed the air, tasting blood, flesh and fear in the puny creatures hovering close by.

_Prey._

It was drawn forward by their scent, their delicious scent. They raised small sticks, muttering words the werewolf could not understand, though it understood the intonation well enough – fear.

Under its breath, the werewolf laughed, a sound that resonated as a growl through the stone-walled room. Let them wave their little sticks and shout; already it could taste their warm, salty blood gushing over its tongue, feel their bones cracking between its teeth, hear their dying heartbeats pounding its ears –

"Draco, Draco, stop!"

The voice halted the werewolf for a fraction of a second. An unfamiliar thought raced across its mind – _Hermione _– but disappeared instantly. The werewolf backed up a step, sensing a kind of power in the tallest creature, whose voice was calm and void of emotion and who had not moved back with the others as the werewolf approached.

_Danger._

With a fierce growl, the werewolf leapt forward at what it assumed was the leader of the enemy pack and, unlike the other creatures, possibly a threat. It knew instinctively that the leader must be taken out first before the real feast could begin.

The creatures all began shouting in unison, their sticks pointed directly at the werewolf. It was stunned in mid-leap by bolts of red light issuing from the sticks; the light exploded around it, burning its fur-slick flesh, knocking it backwards and onto the stone floor. Dazed, the werewolf shook its head and tried to rise, to charge them again. But the creatures kept shouting, and the painful light kept coming, and the brilliant moonlight melted away into darkness.

"Is anyone hurt? Poppy? Miss Granger?"

Cowering against the wall, Hermione managed to shake her head mutely in response to Professor McGonagall's frightened inquiry. Dumbledore, Snape, Healer Fairmont and Poppy were rushing forward to Draco's prone form; he had collapsed beyond the reach of the moonlight, where he had transformed immediately back into a boy.

Professor Flitwick was hurriedly closing the drapes, which had been purposefully opened to facilitate Draco's first, unavoidable transformation. For the first time in weeks, Hermione stood back, too numb to assist as Draco was placed back onto his cot and his naked body covered with a sheet.

"Is he…?" Snape looked up at Fairmont. His pale face was a shade lighter than usual, and his lips looked thin around the question Hermione most feared.

Fairmont pressed his fingers to Draco's neck. Hermione's world ground to a horrifying halt until the healer shook his head and declared, "No, he's alive."

The breath left her in a rush. If McGonagall hadn't been watching her closely, she might have collapsed, but the older woman's arm shot securely around her waist and guided her onto a cot. "Poppy, some help over here, please," McGonagall called sharply.

"Are you all right?" Poppy demanded. She felt Hermione's forehead, which was cool and clammy, and sighed. "It's probably shock and exhaustion, Minerva. You have no idea what she's been through this past month."

"In point of fact, I was the one who strongly objected to Miss Granger witnessing all of this," McGonagall answered imperiously. She motioned the Headmaster over. "Albus, Miss Granger is on the point of physical collapse here. Don't you agree she needs to return to her dormitory and to her normal schedule at once?"

_Normal__. Like anything could be normal now._

At last, Hermione found her voice. "I'm all right," she managed, though she realized she hardly sounded it – her voice was weak, thin, raspy. "I just…It was so awful, seeing him…change."

She shuddered and closed her eyes. The image of Draco stepping off the bed, screaming, twisting around on the floor and emerging as a werewolf would, she suspected, haunt her forever.

_But his eyes were the same cold, cold blue – I would have known him anywhere by those eyes. And he heard me, I know he did, he stopped for a moment, just a moment, when I said his name…_

_Don't be stupid, _her inner voice piped up sternly. _You've done your homework, you know werewolves lose all vestiges of humanity when they transform. What did Snape tell you? The werewolf responds only to the call of its own kind. _

_Not to its human name. To the howl of another werewolf._

"Nevertheless, Miss Granger, I do believe it is time for you to resume life with your fellow Gryffindors," Dumbledore declared. McGonagall nodded approvingly. Before Hermione could protest, he continued, "Mr. Malfoy has survived the worst of his injuries, and Healer Fairmont assures me that he is now in almost no danger of dying. He will be weak for some time, and his body will need to adjust to the potions Professor Snape will prepare for him, but he will be leaving the hospital wing himself tomorrow morning."

Hermione's heart stumbled in her chest. "B-but Headmaster, please, you can't send him back to the Slytherins! They're a bunch of bigoted morons – do you have any idea what they would do to a werewolf?"

"While I'm not convinced all members of Slytherin house would be prejudiced against Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore replied smoothly, arching a bemused eyebrow at her description of the Slytherins, "I don't intend to send him back to the student body just yet. I'm afraid prejudice against werewolves extends beyond the Slytherin house. Mr. Malfoy is likely to be the target of vicious attacks, physical and verbal, from many corners of Hogwarts – perhaps even from some members of our own staff."

"So where do you mean to keep him?" Flitwick squeaked from Dumbledore's elbow. Hermione noted with sympathy that the tiny professor looked as shaken as she felt.

"A special room, in the West Tower," Dumbledore replied. "Dobby the House-Elf has already volunteered to bring his meals there. And I'm hoping Miss Granger will bring him his lessons."

Recovering from her surprise that Dobby would want to help Draco (after all, the Malfoys had treated poor Dobby terribly while he was theirs), Hermione hastily accepted her new duty. "Of course, Professor. I'd be happy to."

"Fine," McGonagall agreed, as if hers were the final word on the subject. "But Miss Granger, I must insist that you return to your dormitory tonight and get some rest. You look dreadful."

_Gee, thanks, _Hermione thought wryly. She looked to Poppy, who seemed quite put out at losing her assistant. "Do you think he'll sleep tonight without me?"

"With all the potions Healer Fairmont gave him? We'll be lucky if he wakes up this week," Poppy responded dryly. She reached out and squeezed Hermione's hand. "No, dear, you go rest. I'll watch over him. And don't worry – if anything changes, I'll send for you straight away."

With that reassurance, Hermione found she had no arguments left. She drug her feet as she followed McGonagall to the door; she wanted to tell Draco good-bye, to let him know she would see him in the morning, but she was too shy to ask permission. Even after all she'd been through these last few weeks, she still wasn't ready to announce to the world that she had was absolutely, positively, no-holds-barred, one-hundred-percent in love with her former arch nemesis.


	13. Unexpected Visitor

**Chapter Thirteen**

A gray curtain of rain shielded the Hogwarts' grounds from view. For Draco, that was just as well; he didn't feature watching his schoolmates skip down to the Quidditch field for a sunny afternoon game while he remained, as he had for the past five weeks, squirreled away in a far-off tower.

_Hope they all catch their deaths of cold, lousy buggers, _Draco thought sourly. He flounced back onto his cot, avoiding a glance at the stacks of homework piling up on his desk. Granger brought his lessons like clockwork every afternoon at five, and every day, he kept the door bolted against her until she finally tired of waiting in the cold hallway and wandered off. When he felt like it – which, admittedly, wasn't often – Draco would complete his assignments and leave them for her to fetch from outside his door the next evening.

He kept waiting for her to grow weary of the pointless go-round, but she apparently possessed an impressive stubborn streak. Unfortunately, so did Draco.

Granger wasn't the only person Draco was avoiding. In fact, since he'd awoken in this cell-like tower room more than a month before, aching from head to toe and so weak he could barely lift his head off the pillow, Draco had admitted just four visitors: the Headmaster, Madam Pomfrey, Professor Snape, and Dobby. Dumbledore had been sitting by his bed that first terrible morning, waiting to deliver the dreadful news of Draco's fate in soft, somber tones; the Headmaster had returned once or twice to check up on him, but their conversations had been mercifully short.

His other three visitors came on a more regular basis. Dobby popped in three times a day with meals, usually sneaking up some extra treat for the boy he still insistently called "Master Draco," no matter how many times Draco reminded the house-elf that he was free now. Snape showed up every Saturday night with more of his vile-tasting Lykos Potion. He would stand by silently glowering until Draco finished every last drop – luckily, Dobby kept Draco supplied with enough sweets to chase away the rancid-butter taste of the potion. Madam Pomfrey came round once a day to listen to her patient's chest, tut over his thinness and his pallor, and poke about the wound on his side, which had healed nicely into a jagged scar.

_Well, at least now Potter and I have something in common: scars._

A knock on the door startled Draco from his grim reverie. He cut a wary eye toward the window; outside, the rain still lashed furiously – hard enough to cancel the match? Draco doubted it; he'd seen Quidditch played in much worse conditions. Since it was unlikely he'd have any unwanted visitors while the entire school was down at the Quidditch field cheering Hufflepuff to victory over Ravenclaw, he decided this unexpected intruder was probably just Dobby sunnily bearing another one of those awful tea cozies he kept trying to pass off as a hat for Draco to wear…

"Coming," Draco called reluctantly. He plodded wearily across the small room and slowly pulled open the door, cursing his continued fatigue. "Dobby, what is - ?"

He pulled up short. For an instant, he considered slamming and locking the door, but on reflection he decided that would be far too dramatic of a response to the situation. Instead, he forced a cold, indifferent expression into place and demanded, "What do you want?"

Hermione Granger trembled in the hallway. It being Saturday, she wore a pair of tattered blue jeans and a short-waisted gray cotton sweater in lieu of her usual school uniform. Her shorter hair-do was growing out into soft, silky waves that she had tied back on her neck with a gray silk scarf; Draco had to restrain himself from reaching out to tuck a stray lock behind her ear.

_Bleeding Christ, I've missed her…And she looks so damn vulnerable standing there, waiting for me to welcome her in…_

With some difficulty, Draco reminded himself that he owed Granger nothing. Madam Pomfrey had alluded to the care she had taken of him during his prolonged illness; truthfully, Draco perfectly recalled what he had thought were simply dreams of Hermione's voice and touch soothing him while his body baked with fever, what he now realized hadn't been dreams at all. But that, he told himself sternly, changed nothing: Granger was friends with Potter, quite likely much more than friends, and Potter was the reason Draco would never, ever have the life he had dreamed of.

_They don't make werewolves healers. They don't make werewolves anything, in point of fact – I'd have been better off dead._

"I, um, I wanted to see how you're doing."

Granger's tentative response puzzled Draco for a moment until he remembered that he'd asked her what she was doing outside his door. Gruffly, he replied, "I'm bloody marvelous, Granger. Anything else I can help you with?"

"Professor Dumbledore was asking how your lessons are going," she blurted out. She folded her arms protectively across her chest, shrinking from Draco's fierce scowl. Though she looked ready to bolt, true to form she stood her ground. "He's been asking, actually, for a while now, and I've been telling him that you're coming along all right. But now the other professors are starting to ask when I'll be bringing back your assignments. So I thought maybe I should see if you needed…a tutor?"

Draco snorted derisively. "Any opportunity to play the know-it-all, eh, Granger?"

She flushed scarlet – rather prettily, he couldn't help noticing. "I have notes from the classes we have together, and I borrowed copies from people in your other courses. I thought maybe you'd like me to go over the lessons with you, be sure you understood how to do the assignments."

"No thanks."

Her embarrassment was, he could see, quickly turning into impatience. "All right, then, what should I tell the professors when they ask when you'll have your lessons finished?"

"Tell them right about the time they make me Minister of Magic." Draco smirked at her astonished expression. Leaning one hip against the doorframe, he chided, "C'mon, Granger, did you really think I'd go on playing the part of dutiful student? The only reason I'm still at this school is because Dumbledore doesn't know what else to do with me." A coldness settled in Draco's chest, and his next words came out more bitterly than he intended. "I'm sure my father will take care of that once he finally gets himself out of Azkaban."

Granger blanched. "Oh, no, Draco you can't think – Dumbledore would never let your father – "

"Whatever." Her concern touched Draco far more deeply than he cared to admit. Unbidden, memories of their steamy kiss rose up to taunt him.

_Just another thing you've lost thanks to Potter. Hermione Granger can certainly do better than a half-blood, a monster in a man's skin._

This encounter was spiraling out of Draco's control. He knew if he didn't get rid of her quickly, Granger was going to punch through the protective wall he'd built around himself these last five weeks – hell, she might even break away the façade of hard-heartedness he'd been constructing for years. Looking into her wide hazel eyes, he searched for the button to push that would send her packing.

_Potter.__ It's always been Potter._

"Look, Granger, I appreciate your concern," he began, his words laced with sarcasm, "but I don't see the point in wasting my time on schoolwork. It's not like the employers will be beating my door down once I leave here."

"So what are you going to do, then? Just give up? Spend the rest of your life hiding in this tower?"

_You will not get angry. You will not get angry._

_Okay, I'm angry. But I can deal with that._

"Hardly." Draco smirked deeper as he realized she was even angrier than he was – angry with his refusal to be the good patient, to accept her help in adjusting to this new "life" (if it could even be called that) fate had handed him. "As soon as I'm well enough, I plan to leave Hogwarts for good. Maybe go to London, see if I can find work – hey, maybe the Daily Prophet will be interested in my story, seeing as how it was the great hero Harry Potter who ruined my life."

Draco's words had exactly the effect he'd hoped for. Fairly spitting with rage, Granger shot back, "Oh, so now Harry's to blame, is he? I seem to remember it was _you _who insisted on that stupid duel, even when I _begged _you not to!"

"Always protecting him, aren't you? I can see nothing's changed while I was laid up, nearly dying."

"You know what? You're right. Nothing has changed." Granger, breathing heavily, leveled a venomous glare on him. In spite of himself, Draco colored a bit under that gaze. "And the worst part is, I was stupid enough to think you had."

With that, she spun on her heel and marched away.

_You can't leave it like that. You can't let her have the last word. Go after her…_

Against his better judgment, Draco allowed wounded pride to lead him away from his sanctuary. "I see what's going on, you know," he called to Granger's retreating figure.

Gradually, her steps slowed, and she swung back to face him. Draco, slowly closing the distance between them, continued acidly, "You're trying to ease your guilty conscience. Taking care of me while I was in hospital, bringing me my lessons, covering for me with the professors – you're trying to make yourself feel better about what happened to me."

Granger's eyes flashed dangerously. "And what would I have to feel guilty about?"

He spread his arms wide. "This. Me. How I am now." He packed as much cruelty as possible into his next words. "I sacrificed myself to save you, Granger. I'm not sure you know quite how to live with that."

Granger drew in a sharp breath. Draco allowed himself a triumphant smile; that had done it, all right – that had put her in her place, where she was sure not to come bothering his solitude anymore.

To his surprise, instead of running away in tears, however, she stepped forward calmly, her face an unreadable mask. "You did save my life," she responded quietly. Draco felt his breath catch in his throat as she reached one hand up to touch the side of his face. "But what you have to live with, Draco, is that I was willing to die to save _you. _And I still would. How does that feel?"

_Bleeding Christ, I can't win with this girl._

Draco struggled to resurrect some shred of dignity from this awful scene. "You weren't out there to save me," he offered, despising how feeble his come-back sounded. "You were out there to save Potter."

"Do you really believe that?"

How could he possibly believe that when she was so close? Staring into her up-turned face, Draco felt his knees going weak – and suddenly, fatigue was not the cause.

"No," he confessed. His mind was swimming. "No, I don't really believe – "

Hermione – there it was again, the inability to think of her as "Granger" – silenced him with a kiss. Unlike their earlier, desperate kiss, this time she didn't hurry; she drew his lips down to hers gently, softly, pressing the length of her body into his as if she were sinking into a warm bubble-bath. And, just like that night in the old bath-house, she completely stole Draco's breath away.

Heat rose up inside of him. Blood pounded in his ears. Draco tightened his grip on Hermione's waist to draw her closer; she came willingly, her fingers wound tightly in his white-blond hair. He wanted nothing more than to sweep her up in his arms, carry her back to his tower-room, lock the door and –

_Rip her flesh off her bones. Drink her heart's blood. I can taste her, smell her…_

_Oh God, what's wrong with me?_

Terrified of the horrible thoughts dancing across his mind, Draco wrenched his mouth away from Hermione's. She stumbled back in surprise. "What is it?" she gasped as he turned away, afraid his dark fantasies were written plainly across his face. "Draco, what's wrong?"

An oddly familiar pain clenched in Draco's stomach, doubling him over. He shook his head in stunned disbelief. This could _not _be happening. It wasn't a full moon – he couldn't transform into a werewolf when it wasn't a full moon - !

_Ah, but don't you see, it's always there, inside. The wolf. The monster. It wants to consume you; it wants to show its face in the daylight; it wants to break free of this prison of your humanity._

Draco closed his mind to his torturous inner voice. Hermione was leading him back to his room, murmuring words of comfort. He found himself impossibly weak, drained, and frightened.

For the first time, it occurred to him what being a werewolf really meant: He wasn't entirely human anymore.

He allowed Hermione to ease him onto his bed and tuck the covers up around his chin. She stoked the fire in his grate, placed a glass of water beside his bed, bathed his face with a cold cloth. "It's all right now," she soothed, sitting beside him. He was afraid of her nearness, afraid of what it might awaken, but too tired to forego her care. "I'll stay with you until you fall asleep. You're just over-tired, that's all."

"Hermione." He expended the last of his strength reaching out to lace his fingers with hers. "You shouldn't be here with me, after dark, alone. I could…hurt you."

"Draco, no offense, but right now, you don't look too scary." Grinning at him, she leaned down to drop a light kiss on his forehead. Her lips next to his ear, she whispered, "Go to sleep. Things are going to be different now, you'll see. Because I'm going to be here with you. I promise."

Too weary to argue, Draco nodded, and soon his eyelids drifted closed. Yet even as sleep overcame him, he wondered if it was a promise he could allow Hermione to keep, for her sake.


	14. New Developments

**Chapter Fourteen**

The next morning, Hermione woke up late and lay in her bed for a long time, smiling at the ceiling and running her fingers over and over her lips.

_He kissed me. Draco kissed me. It was amazing…wonderful…amazing…_

She sighed dreamily to herself. Just thinking about Draco's fingertips sinking into her hips, his tongue gliding across hers, his silky blonde hair sliding between her fingers…Well, it was enough to make her dormitory feel considerably warmer.

And the best part was, he had talked to her. After he slept for an hour or so, he had woken up refreshed and ready to open up – okay, to open up as much as possible. Hermione was proud of him for making a sincere effort to let down his guard, to drop the ultra-macho, super-self-absorbed act, yet she accepted that it would take time for Draco to completely lower his defenses, even for her, and just be who he was. Yesterday they had made progress. At least he trusted her now, and he knew how deeply she cared for him; and now she knew that the connection between them was real, not a figment of her imagination. Their serious conversation had been interspersed with enough heart-pounding kissing to convince her that Draco was _definitely _interested in more than friendship.

_And oh my sweet holy lord, can he ever kiss…_

Much as she wanted to stay curled up under the covers reliving her reunion with Draco, however, Hermione couldn't ignore the pile of homework waiting for her. After almost an hour of reminiscing, she reluctantly crawled out of bed, threw on jeans and a sweater, and headed down to the common room to start what would be a long day of studying.

After yesterday's rain, Sunday had dawned cool but clear. Most of Hermione's classmates were out on the laws enjoying the last of the tolerable weather. She hadn't seen Ron or Harry since before the Quidditch match the day before; not that it mattered much about Ron, who barely acknowledged her presence since she returned from the hospital ward, but she was eager to tell Harry the progress Draco was making.

_Or am I? He'll know when he takes one look at me what happened between me and Draco, and I wouldn't hurt Harry for anything in the world._

Ah, well, she sighed inwardly, it couldn't be helped: She belonged to Draco now, heart and soul, for better or worse. What might have been between her and Harry would always be just that – what might have been but wasn't. At least their friendship had proved strong enough to weather the end of any romantic possibilities between them. Lately, in fact, Hermione had begun to wonder if Harry hadn't already moved on; he was spending an inordinate amount of time with Ginny, a fact which hadn't escaped the notice of the rather sour-looking Dean Thomas, either.

Lunchtime had come and gone and Hermione was hard at work on her Transfiguration essay when Harry, Ron, Seamus and Neville entered the common room, laughing about some practical joke Seamus had played on a group of third-year Slytherins. Closing her "prefect ears" so she didn't have to scold them, Hermione called to Harry, "Hey, you got a sec?"

He broke away from his friends and sat down across from her at the large oak table she had taken over in the corner. Hermione tried not to notice the cold glare Ron directed their way. He was more tolerant of Harry than of her these days, though not by much, yet he still looked irritated whenever she and Harry talked privately.

_He probably feels excluded – but how can I feel guilty for that? He's the one who won't have hardly anything to do with us!_

Shaking off thoughts of Ron, Hermione filled Harry in on the good news that Draco was finally talking to her. Although she left out the kissing parts, obviously, she knew her face gave her away, because Harry looked away rather sadly until he could arrange a neutral expression back in place. She hurriedly finished with, "I'd like to go back up and see him this evening. Don't you think this is a good sign, Harry? I mean, maybe you could come visit him this week and we could make him see not everyone is against him – "

At that moment, Ginny, flushed and breathless, burst into the common room. She made a beeline for Harry and Hermione, ignoring the curious stares of her brother, Seamus and Neville. Stopping at their table, she gasped out, "Lucius Malfoy has been released from Azkaban, and he's on his way here to collect Draco!"

Horror gripped Hermione. Draco's words echoed in her mind: _"The only reason I'm still at this school is because Dumbledore doesn't know what else to do with me. I'm sure my father will take care of that once he finally gets himself out of Azkaban."_

She could only imagine what Lucius Malfoy would do to a son who had become what Lucius would call a "half-breed." If Draco was lucky, he'd get to spend the rest of his life chained in the attic of the Malfoy mansion; if he wasn't…Well, she didn't even want to think about it.

"How do you know this?" Harry was pressing Ginny.

Sinking down into a chair, Ginny explained, "I was walking past the Headmaster's office, going outside for a while, you know, and I heard him saying something to Professor Snape about Lucius Malfoy petitioning the Board of Governors to have Dumbledore tossed for not informing him about Draco's illness. I hid behind one of the suits of armor, because I had to know how Malfoy was causing that kind of trouble from Azkaban, and then I heard Dumbledore say that Malfoy's release papers were signed this morning and he'll be here by tomorrow night to take Draco away!"

"What was Dumbledore going to do?" Harry's voice, like his eyes, had taken on a flinty quality that Hermione found comforting. Apparently, she wasn't the only person unwilling to hand Draco over to whatever cruel fate his father settled on for him.

"Well, Snape suggested that they petition the Board of Governors to have Draco declared of age – you know, so his father wouldn't have any right to take him out of school – but Dumbledore said they didn't have enough time. And when Snape said they could start the petition while Draco was at home, and then he could come back, Dumbledore said…"

Ginny stopped, looking loathe to continue her story. Ready to scream from the suspense, Hermione shrieked, "What? What did he say?"

Ginny's wide-eyed expression said plainly that whatever came next, it was awful. Dropping her voice to a whisper, she went on, "He said that Draco isn't going home. He said Malfoy already has a spot reserved for him at the Wyr Estate for Lycanthropes."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a bewildered glance. "Uh, Ginny," Harry prompted, "I have no idea what that means."

"Oh!" She blushed, obviously embarrassed about forgetting that, having grown up in the Muggle world, her friends were still out-of-the-loop in some aspects of wizard society. "Oh, it's this awful, awful place. I heard Dad telling Mum about it once, when the Ministry considered closing them down. It's this castle way, way out in the middle of nowhere, some unplottable place like Hogwarts, where people who are werewolves supposedly go to be 'cured'."

Harry held up a hand. "Wait. I'm lost. There's a _cure _for lycanthrope now?"

"No, that's the awful part," Ginny rushed on. "The place is founded on this ridiculous idea that a person can _decide _not to be a werewolf. Supposedly it just takes discipline. But Dad told Mum that what really happens there is, well," she shot an apologetic look at Hermione, as if she regretted having to reveal Draco's horrible fate to her, "more like torture. People in cages, being starving, getting beaten. Dad said nearly everyone who goes there dies. Anyone who doesn't ends up at St. Mungo's in a padded room, if you know what I mean."

Dread enveloped Hermione. How could a father, even a bigoted and merciless one like Lucius Malfoy, condemn his son to such a place? More to the point, how could Dumbledore allow this to happen?

Harry was already standing. "I don't believe Dumbledore will let Malfoy have Draco," he declared firmly. Hermione took strength from his resolve; he had to be right, the Headmaster would never stand idly by while one of his students was sentenced unjustly to death. "I'm going to go talk to him. See what the plan is."

"I should go to Draco." Numb, Hermione pushed to her feet. She swayed a little, and Harry reached out instinctively to steady her. Looking up into his eyes, she pleaded softly, "Don't let them do this, Harry. I-I couldn't stand it…"

Tears choked her. Harry wrapped his strong arms protectively around her; Ginny joined in, twining her small arms around them both.

"It'll be okay, Hermione," she promised, her voice tight with forced optimism. "You'll see. Dumbledore won't let anyone hurt Draco. He'll find a way to stop Lucius Malfoy."

"And if he doesn't," Harry added firmly, "I will."


	15. Follow the Rules

**Chapter Fifteen**

As he followed Professor McGonagall into Dumbledore's office, Harry was supremely confident that the Headmaster would have a plan for dealing with Lucius Malfoy. Not that he hadn't seen Dumbledore at a loss before; the Headmaster's discomfiture on the night of Sirius's death still nibbled uncomfortably at the back of Harry's mind. But he couldn't bring himself to believe that Dumbledore would be pre-empted by the likes of Lucius Malfoy.

Dumbledore, seated behind his cluttered desk, appeared unsurprised by Harry's visit. "It's all right, Minerva," he assured Professor McGonagall, who had opened her mouth to apologize for Harry's insistence on seeing the Headmaster immediately (he had threatened to camp out in her office until she took him to Dumbledore). "Please sit down, Harry."

Dropping into a chair across from the Headmaster, Harry suddenly found himself at a loss for words. He couldn't just directly demand to know Dumbledore's plans, could he?

With a knowing smile, Dumbledore ventured, "Something tells me you're here about Draco Malfoy, aren't you?" Harry nodded, grateful for the rescue. "I see Miss Weasley has inherited her older brothers' penchant for eavesdropping."

Harry blushed. "She didn't mean anything, Professor – "

Dumbledore waved him off. "Quite all right, Harry, quite all right. I should know by now not to discuss sensitive matters in the hallways."

Resting his elbows on the desk, Dumbledore leaned forward, suddenly intense. "I wish I had better news for you, Harry," he began gravely. The sparkle in his wise blue eyes dimmed. "I've already spoken with the Board of Governors, and it seems neither I nor any other member of the Hogwarts faculty may prevent a parent from removing their child from this institution."

"But that's ridiculous!" Harry protested. Behind him, Professor McGonagall clucked disapprovingly; ignoring her, he rushed on, "Lucius Malfoy isn't taking Draco on a holiday. He's sending him to his death!"

"I don't disagree with you. But I must say, as long as the Wyr Estate remains open, I can't prevent Mr. Malfoy – or anyone else, for that matter – from sending his son there." Dumbledore looked away, obviously troubled. "I'm afraid, Harry, that _some _members of our Board see nothing wrong with the Wyr Estate. I don't expect them to take any desperate measures on Draco's behalf."

Rage born of frustration rose up inside of Harry. How could the world be so unfair? How could people be so ignorantly bigoted? Not that he had much compassion for Malfoy – well, prior to this whole werewolf debacle, that was – but, villain or not, Malfoy was still a person. Werewolf or not, he was still a person. Why couldn't the rest of the world see that?

"So what do we do?" he managed to calm himself enough to ask Dumbledore. "Can we hide Malfoy or something?"

"I'm sure Lucius intends to press this matter to the furthest extent of the law," the Headmaster replied. "If I, or any other member of the Hogwarts faculty, were to hide his son, he would insist that the Ministry send in a team of Aurors to find him out. And not even Hogwarts can hide someone forever – especially not an ill boy in need of daily care."

Something struck Harry as odd: That was twice now Dumbledore had used the phrase "any other member of the Hogwarts faculty". Was it just because the Headmaster was tired and worried, or was something more behind the professor's words?

_Is he trying to tell me something?_

Harry searched Dumbledore's eyes. Sure enough, he was certain he detected a hint of _something _there. He couldn't put his finger on what the _something _was, exactly, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that the Headmaster was trying to communicate a point to him without actually saying it out loud.

Slowly, choosing his words with care, Harry asked, "Do you know of anything at all that can be done, Professor?"

Dumbledore smiled the kind of pleased smile that reminded Harry of a Cheshire cat. "Well, Harry, in these troubling times, I always tell students to look to our history. We can learn a lot from our past."

With that, the Headmaster rose. "Now, you'll have to excuse me, but I need to go speak with Mr. Malfoy before his father arrives. I expect," he added, leveling a meaningful gaze on Harry, "that Lucius will arrive around seven o'clock this morning. If anyone is interested."

The moment Dumbledore disappeared from the office, Harry dashed past Professor McGonagall and made a beeline for Gryffindor Tower. Bursting into the common room, he found Ginny trying unsuccessfully to console a sobbing Hermione, while Neville hovered nearby looking miserable and nervous.

"What is it?" Harry demanded of Ginny, alarmed by Hermione's hysterical state.

"She tried to go see Draco," Ginny explained quietly, "and Snape told her they weren't allowing him any visitors."

"It's not fair!" Hermione burst out. Her tear-streaked cheeks flamed with sudden fury. "Draco's going to think we've all abandoned him! What was I going to do, turn us both invisible and sneak out under Snape's nose?"

"Hardly. It's a pretty big nose," Neville offered.

Harry suppressed a grin. From the look on Hermione's face, he could tell this was not the time to smile – he didn't want her fury at Snape being transferred onto him, especially at this close of range. Sitting down beside her, he reluctantly relayed the bad news that Dumbledore couldn't protect Draco from his father, but he added hastily, "I think he was trying to tell me something, though. He kept saying that the teachers couldn't do anything, and then he told me to look to 'our history.' Any ideas what he meant?"

Three blank stares met his hopeful gaze. After a long silence, Ginny countered, "Maybe he meant something like this has happened before here?"

"But how would we find out about it?" Neville rejoined. "You think one of the professors could tell us something? Or Hagrid, maybe?"

Suddenly, Hermione jumped to her feet. "Of course! 'Our history'! It makes perfect sense!"

"What does?" Harry demanded, bewildered, but he was speaking to Hermione's back as she abruptly ran up the dormitory stairs. Turning to Ginny, he wondered aloud, "Is she touched in the head?"

Ginny shrugged. "The boy she loves is in danger," she replied, with so much meaning in the words that Harry couldn't fight down a blush. "Tends to make even the sanest girls into nutters."

_Oh boy, this is gonna get complicated…_

Before Harry could dwell too long on the implications of Ginny's response, though, Hermione dashed back into the room and deposited her well-used copy of _Hogwarts: A History _on the table in front of Harry. "There," she cried triumphantly. "Dumbledore said to look in 'our history,' right?"

Neville groaned. "You mean we have to go through that whole book looking for something that'll help us?"

"No," Hermione assured him, already flipping pages. "I'm sure I know what he means. Harry, you said he kept referring to the teachers not being able to intervene, right?"

"Right," Harry answered. "He kept saying 'any other member of the Hogwarts faculty'. It was strange."

"Here it is." Hermione stopped with her finger on a page. She read aloud: "_In 1321, Imogene Hall, a fifth-year student at Hogwarts, was summoned home by her mother, the infamous Cleopatra Hall, who was suspected (but never convicted) of killing her husband and two young sons. The Board of Governors was powerless to prevent Cleopatra from removing her daughter from the school, even though everyone suspected that she meant to murder her young daughter as she had the rest of her family. But when Cleopatra arrived to collect her daughter, she was prevented by the entirety of the student body, who invoked the Charter of Protection to keep Imogene safely at Hogwarts._"

"What the bloody hell is the Charter of Protection?" Neville muttered, echoing Harry's thoughts exactly.

Impatient as always with their ignorance, Hermione explained testily, "The Charter of Protection states that if all of the students in three of the four Houses agree that one or more other students are in danger, they can join together and use whatever magical means necessary to protect that student or students. The only condition is that they cannot be incited to invoke the Charter by an member of the Hogwarts faculty, including the Headmaster. You see, that's why Dumbledore couldn't tell you what to do directly, Harry, he just had to lead you to it!"

"Good thing we had you here," Neville muttered, "or I don't think we'd have gotten it."

She glared at him. "Honestly, Neville, don't you pay any attention to the school handbook?"

Harry decided not to mention that he hadn't even been aware a handbook existed until now. Instead, he clarified, "So what you're saying is, if we get three of the four Houses to agree that Lucius Malfoy means to harm Draco, we can keep him from taking Draco out of Hogwarts?"

"Exactly." Hermione's red-rimmed eyes shone with hope. "Oh, Harry, do you think we can pull this off?"

Harry glanced at the clock. By now, it was after ten; that meant they had a little more than eight hours to convince every single student in at least three Houses to stand up for the protection of Draco Malfoy – not an easy sell, given Malfoy's track record of bullying.

But they had to try. He couldn't be responsible for Malfoy's death on top of everything else.

Mustering his courage, Harry announced decisively, "Here's what we're going to do. Hermione, you get out your handbook and get ready to spout that Protection-rule-thingie to anyone who challenges us. Ginny, you and Neville will take the Invisibility Cloak and go to Ravenclaw – you go there, Ginny, you know a lot of them – and to Hufflepuff – you go there, Neville – and get them to agree to stopping Malfoy. Tell everyone to meet down in the Great Hall by six-thirty. Okay?"

"What are you going to do?" Hermione asked, as Neville darted upstairs to get the Invisibility Cloak out of Harry's trunk.

Grimly, Harry replied, "I'm going to recruit Gryffindor."

And that, of course, meant recruiting Ron.

_Author's Note: I promise Draco will be back next chapter!_


	16. Charter of Protection

**Chapter Sixteen**

The moment he heard Snape turn a desperate-sounding Hermione away from his door, Draco's new-found sense of elation deflated like a punctured balloon. He waited rigidly on the tower's small cot, knowing in the pit of his stomach that the other shoe was about to drop, for what seemed a small eternity until Dumbledore arrived and gravely confirmed Draco's worst fears.

Determined to show no weakness to the venerable Headmaster, Draco accepted his fate passively, sitting stoic and silent while Dumbledore assured him that he would not rest until Draco was safely back at Hogwarts. Finally, just when Draco thought his insides would surely burst from the strain of containing his horror and rage, Dumbledore took his leave with a simple, "Please pack your things. Professor Snape will escort you to the front doors in half an hour to meet your father."

Only when the door closed behind Dumbledore and the murmurs of Headmaster and Potions professor had moved down the staircase did Draco allow himself the release of one full-throated, stomach-vibrating roar.

_My own father! The coward, the bloody coward, he can't handle a few months in Azkaban and he thinks I can't handle the Wyr Estate – let them starve me, let them beat me, if he thinks I'll beg for my life he's about to see what a real Malfoy is made of –_

_My own father…I've never been his son, not really, even less so now…_

To his own horror, Draco felt hot tears sliding down his cheeks. He rolled over and flung himself face-down into his pillow, futilely fighting back sobs that burned his throat as they tore free. Lucius had never been an affectionate father; he had always treated his son with a mixture of cold disapproval and weary disdain that Draco, try as he might, could never penetrate. But, like most children, Draco had believed, in his heart of hearts, that his father loved him, and that one day, perhaps even on Lucius's death-bed, he would confess how unutterably proud he was of his son.

Now, with that fantasy revealed as a silly pipe-dream, Draco languished between the most intense self-loathing for his own stupidity and the vilest hatred for his father's cruelty. Finally, he gave into the grief and cried until his eyes burned, his throat ached and his cheeks swelled. He cried until his tears ran dry, leaving him hollow and hiccupping.

Slowly, feeling impossibly weak – he was, after all, still recovering from a near-fatal wound – he rolled over on the cot and stared unseeingly at the ceiling. Hermione, he realized, must have found out his father's plan; that was why she had sounded so terrified in the hallway. She had been coming to him, probably with some desperate idea for an escape, or maybe just to be with him for whatever time they had left – it didn't matter, really, why she had come, only that she had.

Draco smiled thinly at the irony of his situation. Two days ago, he would have been almost relieved by Lucius's decision to, essentially, murder him. He might even have determined to attack his keepers so viciously they would be forced to kill him, as death was infinitely preferable to life as a madman and a prisoner. But Hermione had changed all of that. With one kiss, she had driven his desperation far away and rekindled his desire to _live, _to really live, to leave this tower and rejoin the world and become the kind of man she could be proud to marry. He had allowed hope to spark once more in his soul the very instant before Fate drew a breath to snuff it out.

_Potter will take care of her, _he told himself, forcing down the rising jealousy at the unbidden image of Hermione collapsing in his rival's arms. _He'll see to it that she goes on, that she's happy. I think I can survive this if I know she'll be all right._

_Wish I could have said good-bye…_

Dragging his leaden feet off the cot, Draco decided it was probably for the best that Snape had barred Hermione from his room. He could remember her now as she had been the last time he'd seen her: flushed and giggling from his kisses, a lock of hair falling loosely over her pretty hazel eyes, happier than he ever remembered her being. That memory would sustain him through anything the Wyr Estate could dole out.

A rap on the door told Draco his respite had ended. He hurriedly splashed cold water from the basin under his window onto his swollen cheeks and pulled on a clean set of Slytherin robes. Looking up into his pale reflection in the tower window, he made a pact with himself: _I will not break. I will show no weakness, no fear. I will not ask for mercy, from my father or anyone. I will die with dignity._

Snape said nothing to him as they made their way through the empty corridors to the main hall. At the top of the grand staircase, the Potions professor said stiffly, "You can go on your own from here. Good luck, Mr. Malfoy." Their eyes met and held for the briefest moment before Snape swept back up the stairs in a billow of black robes.

Draco drew in a steadying breath. Below, silhouetted against a cold winter morning, the imposing figure of his father waited in the doorway. Draco pulled himself up to his full height as he descended, repeating the pact with himself over and over again in his mind: _I will not break. I will not break. I WIILL NOT BREAK…_

Yet he had barely reached the next step when the doors to the Great Hall opened and, to his shock, Harry Potter marched bravely forward. "What are you - ?" Draco began, startled, but Potter, looking grimly determined, bypassed him without a word.

Potter didn't slow until he was toe-to-toe with Lucius Malfoy, who, Draco noted, looked smugly amused at his enemy's audacity. "Well, well, Harry," Lucius purred, "you look a sight better than the last time I saw you. Taking your godfather's death in stride, I see."

"Thanks. You look pretty good yourself, for someone who just spent a few months in Azkaban," Potter shot back tartly. Draco, rooted to the spot at the bottom of the staircase, winced when he saw his father's hand drop to his wand – if Potter wasn't careful, his tenure as The Boy Who Lived would soon run out. "Or do they treat turncoats better than the other inmates?"

Lucius's smirk faltered ever so slightly. "Now, now, Harry, let's put the past behind us, shall we? After all, you should be thanking me for the help I've given your friends."

Potter snorted derisively. "You mean the information you gave the Ministry? Don't think you're fooling anyone, Malfoy. You just did your master's dirty work by cleaning up his disloyal Death Eaters."

An icy chill skated down Draco's spine. Was that true? Part of him warmed to the idea that his father wasn't a blood-traitor after all, that he had at least remained loyal to his one all-consuming passion, the Dark Lord; a bigger part of him, however, feared for everyone who would oppose his merciless father – especially Hermione, who was as committed to destroying Voldemort as Potter was.

The satisfied glint in Lucius's eyes confirmed the truth of Potter's accusation. "I suppose we could never be friends, you and I," Lucius murmured. He reached out and brushed the tip of his wand across Potter's scar. "Pity…Just think, with the power the Dark Lord passed to you, you could have been one of the greatest wizards ever born."

"You mean a wizard like you? A murderer? A liar? A father who condemns his own son?"

Draco stepped forward automatically at the reminder of why his father was there. "I don't need you to stand up for me, Potter," he snapped, emboldened by a sudden fury toward the one person who, in some way, was responsible for his current predicament – the only person besides himself, of course.

Lucius started at Draco's appearance; he had been so absorbed in trading insults with Potter he didn't seem to have noticed his son's presence. "This has been fascinating, Potter, but I have more important business to tend to," he said now, his eyes fixed on Draco's face. "I'm sure we'll meet again soon enough."

"Not so fast." Potter side-stepped so he was planted directly been Draco and his father. Draco was too surprised to push him out of the way. "You're not taking Draco anywhere."

The warning note in Lucius's voice sent a shudder through Draco, who had experienced his father's wrath on more than one occasion. "Get out of my way, boy, or I will move you out of my way."

"Then you'll have to move us, too."

Draco's insides quaked at the sound of Hermione's voice ringing clear and defiant through the hall. He would not allow his father to hurt her; he would grab Potter's wand and curse Lucius into oblivion if he so much as touched one hair on her head.

_But what does she think she's doing, challenging a vicious Death Eater so openly? Has she lost her mind?_

As he turned to ask her that very question (and to force her, kicking and screaming if necessary, back to the safety of the Great Hall), Draco received the biggest shock of his life: Pouring out of the Great Hall was a mass of students wearing Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw robes and frowns of fierce determination.

The wave of students flooded into the space between where Draco stood, poised on the last step of the grand staircase, and where Lucius remained frozen in the doorway. Every wand in the room pointed fearlessly at the Death Eater on the doorstep.

Draco looked from Hermione, who was beaming at him from the middle of the crowd, to Potter, who was glaring triumphantly at Lucius, to his father, who was purpling with rage.

_What the bloody hell is going on?_

Lucius immediately sputtered out Draco's exact thought: "What the bloody hell is going on? Just what do you think you're playing at, Potter?"

"We're invoking the Charter of Protection," announced Katie Bell, a member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team whom, to be perfectly honest, Draco would have expected to be cheering him on his way to the Wyr Estate's torments. She shouldered her way through the crowd to stand proudly beside Potter. "You're not taking Draco out of this school, Mr. Malfoy."

"Stand aside!" Lucius snarled, reaching for her. He stopped, however, when hundreds of wands bristled in his direction. "This is ridiculous! You can't stop me from taking my own child out of this school! I'll have you all expelled!"

"I don't think so," Ginny Weasley replied coolly. She, too, moved away from the press of students to stand at Potter's side. "Not unless you want to fight all of us."

"Do you think I wouldn't?" Lucius's eyes bored into hers. "Do you think I would hesitate to curse every student in this room? Do you honestly think you are a match for the Dark Lord's most loyal servant?"

"Probably not." Draco's shock increased ten-fold when Ronald Weasley, the last person alive he would ever have expected to protect him, materialized from a doorway to his sister's left and positioned himself fearlessly between Ginny and Lucius. "But as you don't seem cut out for Azkaban, Malfoy, I'd suggest you think twice before you start cursing."

Lucius studied this new arrival imperiously. "Your pathetic father ought to teach you more about our laws, Weasley. You're keeping me from what is mine. No court in our world would sentence me for using force to take it back." His eyes flicked almost imperceptibly toward Draco, who shivered at the absolute lack of feeling there: He had become nothing more than a possession to his father, he saw that plainly now – a damaged possession that needed to be disposed of, and quickly.

"Actually, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione suddenly piped up in a mockingly polite voice, "the Charter of Protection supersedes your claim to Draco. Here, I have a copy of it for you to read."

Draco's throat tightened with fear as Hermione hurried forward, bringing herself entirely too close to his father's wand. He started toward her, refusing to be the reason she was placed in danger a second time, but found himself abruptly encircled by the Patil twins, Lavender Brown, Hannah Abbot, Susan Bones, Luna Lovegood and a number of other Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff girls, all of whom looked ready to petrify him in place if he attempted to break free.

Surrounded, he watched helplessly as Hermione presented his furious father with a roll of parchment. She settled back beside Potter, smiling triumphantly as Lucius's face distorted with rage.

"Dumbledore!" Lucius roared the moment he read the last word. "I demand to see the Headmaster, this instant!"

As if on cue, Dumbledore appeared at the top of the stairs behind Draco. He paused, momentarily surveying the crowd below with a look of unconvincing bewilderment, and then called pleasantly, "Why, good morning, Lucius. Could I offer you a spot of tea after your trip?"

"Dumbledore, I demand to know the meaning of this!" Lucius shouted, waving the Charter of Protection in the air. "Your students are invoking some ridiculous law to keep me from taking what is mine!"

"It's the Charter of Protection, sir," Potter turned and called up to the Headmaster. "Do you know of it?"

Sounding as if he were repeating well-rehearsed lines, Dumbledore replied, "Why, yes, Harry, I have heard of it, though it has been some time since it was invoked. And do you have three of the four Hogwarts Houses in agreement that Draco Malfoy's life would be in danger if he were to leave this castle?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied victoriously. He nodded toward Neville Longbottom, who dashed past Draco and his ring of captors to present Dumbledore with three rolls of parchment. "Those are the signatures of every student in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff."

Draco blinked in astonishment. How in the world had Hermione and Potter convinced so many people to come to his defense, risking expulsion, possibly even their very lives?

_I've never been anything but horrid to any of them. Worse than horrid to some of them. Why would they help me?_

_Because Potter asked them to, _a tiny, wheedling voice in the back of his mind spoke up. _That's what people do – they obey heroes._

Well, it really didn't matter why, he supposed, though he couldn't quite believe that even Potter commanded that kind of devotion from this number of people. It only mattered that they were here, and from the looks of it, he wouldn't be marching off to certain death after all. In spite of himself, Draco smiled. A dozen faces around him returned the grin, causing the small bubble of elation in his chest to expand into a large balloon.

"Everything seems to be in order," Dumbledore declared. He handed the parchments over to McGonagall, who, like the rest of the teachers – including the centaur Firenze – had stationed themselves on the landing behind the Headmaster. Even Snape was there, Draco noted. "I'm afraid you'll have to appeal to the Board of Governors, Lucius, but they will certainly tell you the same thing I am about to – so long as the students have invoked the Charter of Protection for your son, he can only leave this castle of his own free will."

"This – I – you – Bloody hell!" Lucius exploded. His fury might have been comical if he hadn't suddenly whipped his wand around and aimed it precisely at Potter's heart. "You can't do this! I'll go straight to the Minister of Magic! Your precious little school will be shut down, you'll all be out on your ears!"

"Try it," Potter replied softly. His voice carried through the suddenly-silent hall; the challenge in his voice obviously meant more than Lucius's spoken threat, taking in the unspoken one in the wand he kept aimed at Potter's chest. "I dare you."

"You filthy little blood-traitor," Lucius hissed, his eyes glowing sapphire with frightening zeal. "I should kill you now, save us all the trouble – "

Without warning, Lucius's wand shot out of his hand and landed on the steps outside with a loud crack. Every student in the hall jumped, including Draco, who turned to find Dumbledore gazing coldly at Lucius. Suddenly, the Headmaster looked taller and more imposing than Draco ever remembered seeing him.

"I cannot allow you to threaten any student here, Lucius," Dumbledore declared, the steel in his eyes belying the softness in his voice. "I think the time has come for you to take your leave."

Still gaping at his wandless hand, Lucius stomped a foot in impotent fury. "You haven't heard the end of this," he spat at the hall, his glare taking in the entirety of the student body as well as the teachers. His blazing eyes came to rest on Draco, who refused to flinch under it. "Each and every one of you will regret this day, I swear it!"

With that ominous threat, he turned and swept majestically out the front doors, which banged shut behind him.

Noise returned to the hall after one stunned moment of silence – students whispering, giggling, cheering, chattering excitedly. As the talk rose to a crescendo, Draco found himself freed from his make-shift prison; he rushed forward immediately to where Hermione, Potter, and Weasley still stood before the doors.

Hermione ran to meet him, grabbing him in a bone-crushing embrace. Draco clung to her as tightly as she did to him, burying his nose in her silky honey-brown hair, unconcerned about the people passing by, staring and snickering.

"I almost lost you," she half-sobbed into his shoulder. "I thought…I thought…"

"Shh," he whispered firmly. "Don't. It's over now. It's over."

They held onto one another for a long time, until at last Potter awkwardly cleared his throat beside them. Draco reluctantly lifted his face from Hermione's neck to find Potter staring at his shoes, Weasley glaring into space and Ginny beaming widely at him. He shifted Hermione to the side, where she tucked herself under his arm with seemingly every intention of remaining there forever.

"So," Potter began nervously.

"So." Draco found it difficult to make eye contact with his old enemy. How could he be grateful to a person he had come, over the last weeks, to despise? Even before that, he certainly hadn't harbored any warm-and-fuzzy feelings for The Boy Who Lived. Being friends now still seemed unthinkable, despite how grateful Draco was not to be going to the Wyr Estate after all.

As the silence grew unbearable, Hermione interjected hopefully, "Draco, this was Harry's idea. He made it all happen."

"It was nothing." Potter blushed bright scarlet under Hermione's praise. He locked his gaze onto Draco's with obvious difficulty. "I owed you."

"No, you don't," Draco answered automatically, surprising himself. A tense silence followed, into which he felt compelled to go on, "What happened, happened. We can't change it. So let's…Let's just forget it, okay?"

Potter visibly sagged with relief. "Okay."

"What I'd like to know," Hermione piped up, "is how you organized this so fast."

Ginny tossed her hair haughtily over one shoulder and replied proudly, "Neville and I decided to go straight for the prefects. Once we had them convinced, it wasn't much to get everybody else down in the common rooms and explain the situation." She glanced sideways at Draco. "People didn't need much persuading, you know."

Draco wondered how true that was. Had some people, the followers of Potter most likely, been so determined that everyone else agreed to go along rather than be labeled an enemy of Dumbledore's prized student? Or were people simply excited by the promise of some action, of being part of a historic event in the school's history?

_Come on, give them the benefit of the doubt. These people risked their hides for you; the least you can do is believe in their better natures…_

"It was basically the same with Gryffindor," Potter added, though Draco didn't miss the tell-tale scowl he shot Weasley, who was continuing to feign deafness beside his sister. "Everyone wanted to do the right thing."

"Everyone?" Draco couldn't resist saying, looking pointedly at Weasley. Hermione squeezed his hand – whether in warning or pleading, he couldn't tell.

Ears turning pink, Weasley grated out in the general direction of the Great Hall, "I didn't do it for you, Malfoy."

_I'll bet you didn't. You did it for Hermione. _

Before Draco could respond – and likely start a fist fight – Hermione said, "Look, Dumbledore's coming!"

They all turned to watch the Headmaster walking their way, a broad grin spread across his face. In spite of himself, Draco felt a rush of admiration for the older man; anyone who could face down his father without so much as flinching had to possess some steel. Looking at Potter out of the corner of his eye, Draco realized that compliment applied to more than one person in this room.

"Pleased to still have you with us, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore greeted Draco. His smile took in each of them in turn; it was a little like having the sun shine directly upon you, Draco noted, as his insides warmed happily to the Headmaster's pleasure. "Actually, I've just been conferring with your teachers, and they agree that this seems like a fine time for you to resume regular classes."

Draco blanched. Leave his tower? Endure the taunts and jibes of his classmates? Was he ready for that?

If Dumbledore noticed his trepidation, he ignored it. "You may of course remain in your private room if you wish, but I have spoken with Professor McGonagall, and she has agreed that you would be welcome to share the sixth-years' dormitory in Gryffindor House, if you'd prefer."

Hermione's grip tightened painfully on Draco's fingers. He could _feel _her silently begging him to accept – after all, it would mean much more time together, without her rushing up before curfew to see him.

But voluntarily throw himself in among the Gryffindors? Willingly associate with all of those do-gooders he so readily loathed? Draco's pride rebelled at the idea. He knew what his fellow Slytherins would call him: coward, blood-traitor, or – even worse – Potter's sidekick. Accepting Dumbledore's offer would mean casting aside the carefully-constructed image Draco had worked so long to hide behind; he would be, symbolically at least, choosing Potter's side in the coming war, and such a choice was not easily undone.

_I'd rather stay neutral. Can't they understand? Can't they see? I don't want to be a hero. I just want my life back. I just want to be me again._

By "they," Draco knew he really meant "Hermione," and more clearly than ever before he understood what falling in love with Hermione meant: fighting beside her against Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Love him as dearly as she did, she would never understand, or accept, his refusal to stand with her, Potter, Dumbledore and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix during the dark years ahead.

Looking down into her hopeful up-turned face, Draco was struck again by the sheer magnitude of his love for her. He realized now just how long he had cared for her, how long he had refused to probe too deeply into his heart for fear of finding her there. Life occasionally offered up moments of truth – choices that, once made, irrevocably altered the course of one's fate. He supposed no one ever got notice of these moments; they just were, and the only thing to be done in the face of them was to decide.

And so he did.

"Thank you, sir," he said politely to Dumbledore, his eyes on Hermione's. "I'd be happy to move into Gryffindor Tower." He glanced at Potter, adding, "If they'll have me."

The tiniest pause ensued, during which Draco imagined he heard Hermione telepathically willing Potter to agree. At last, the other boy nodded once, wordlessly, and Dumbledore immediately declared the matter settled.

Hermione exploded into squeals of joy the instant Dumbledore disappeared into the Great Hall. "This is wonderful!" she cried, covering Draco's cheeks with kisses. He couldn't help but laugh along with her; her happiness was contagious. "Oh, Draco, I couldn't have planned this better myself! Everything's going to be okay now, you'll see."

Catching her around the waist, Draco kissed her firmly on the mouth. He was vaguely aware of Weasley storming off, Ginny giggling and Potter turning away with fiery-red cheeks, but he didn't care. He didn't share Hermione's unwavering faith that from now on everything would be perfect; they might have rallied to save him from the Wyr Estate, but his classmates nevertheless had years of harsh memories to overcome before they accepted him as one of their own, no longer an enemy. And some people, even if they didn't believe (or wouldn't admit to believing) that werewolves should be murdered, would always see him as less than human.

The weeks ahead would be rocky, he was sure, and it was more than a possibility that his father would make good on his threat to have revenge on them all. Losing himself in the sweet taste of Hermione's lips, however, Draco decided he could take whatever life had in store for him so long as he had her by his side.

_Author's Note: I hope to be updating more regularly now that I've plowed through Book Six – I needed some inspiration! – so don't worry, this isn't the end. Thanks for all of the reviews! _


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